


The Serum (Or the One with Domestic Bliss)

by Detochkina



Series: Mr & Mr Smith [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animated Gifs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Married Life, Mystery, Romance, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Spies & Secret Agents, Technology, a lot of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:50:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When agent Merlin is sent on a mission to Las Vegas to secure a powerful artifact, he finds that the motto “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” isn’t always true. Nor would Merlin want it to be. Drinks and foreplay lead to a bet with a hot financial advisor he just met. Merlin ends up as the newlywed. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>As professional and private lives intersect, Merlin is determined to hold on to both his secret identity and his relationship with his new husband, Arthur. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Serum (Or the One with Domestic Bliss)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Candymacaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/gifts).



> This is the second part of the series.  
> It's highly advised that you read the first part ["The Bet"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2978594) if you'd like to keep up with what's going on. Otherwise, enjoy the smut!  
> Again, my big thanks go to my lovely, amazing [Candymacaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/works) for the [fantastic art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902664) for this story. You've been absolutely brilliant to me and I love you to pieces.  
> Please make sure to check Candy's art for this part of the story [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902664) and leave well-deserved love; more will be added as the story progresses, and every piece of her art is a slice of heaven!  
> My betas [Daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh/works) and [M](https://twitter.com/EditsandSnark), thank you as always, for being with me through this journey, you're a godsend!  
>  **Disclaimer:** No infringement intended. The characters are not mine.

The first thing registering in his mind is not even a thought. It’s a sound -- some sort of interference whirring painfully between his temples, and it’s amplified by a voice talking in low but harsh tones. It feels like someone’s taken a drill to his brain and it’s clobbering non-stop. Who’d be so cruel? Gaius? Can't be. Satan?

“Nooooo,” he groans. “G’way. Ughhhh.”

Aaaand there’s apparently a mothball convention rocking inside his mouth. Ugh, that’s disgusting. Merlin considers the possibility of never uttering another word again. That might be his only alternative if he wants to avoid a premature death from his own morning breath. What was it that he ate (or drank?) yesterday? Simply awful.

Merlin rolls onto his back, appreciating the cushy softness under him welcoming his bonny bum -- his very _naked_ bum…

Merlin never sleeps in the nude.

Satan, definitely Satan made him do it -- whatever that “it” is, Merlin isn’t sure yet, but last night is starting to come back to him very slowly. _Oh, shite_. With great caution, he lifts his head from the pillow and cracks one eye open.

He's in a hotel room and it's bright outside. It's always bright here, he remembers. Day and night.

There are clothes strewn across the room. A crumpled shirt he recognises as his is thrown haphazardly over the chair. A shoe -- just one -- is under the table. A sock, white, and the other -- on the floor; black boxers, khaki shorts, a colourful shirt that definitely doesn’t belong to him, and a small mound of red lace...

“Oh my god,” he says in an embarrassingly small voice.

“I took the liberty of ordering you some breakfast,” Merlin hears before he sees the person speaking. “Coffee?” he’s offered, kindly.

 _Arthur_ comes into Merlin’s skewered view. He’s in a white bathrobe, towering over Merlin and mercifully blocking the sun coming from the window, his hair a halo against the light, strong aroma wafting from a cup in an extended hand. Merlin clamps his lips and shakes his head carefully as a “no”.

Arthur tilts his head. “Suit yourself.” And he adds, with a smirk to his mouth, “You look like crap.”

Merlin flushes and makes an attempt to glare. “Attempt” is the operative word, because it feels like he’s about to strain his eyeballs, and it’s all kinds of painful.

“Mffmf, Arfur,” he suggests into the sheet, covering the lower part of his face.

Arthur laughs. “Yeah, that will work well.” He passes the cup near Merlin’s nose. “It’ll be right here, if you change your mind.”

He places it on the nightstand next to Merlin and sits down at the table across the, room, spreading a newspaper in front of him, face hidden.

“I think you’ll want to make a few calls... Mr Smith,” he says after a torturous moment of silence, not looking up.

And then Merlin remembers _everything._

He bolts out of bed, giving no fucks to the fact he’s completely starkers (and oh... sore… in… places...) and runs into the bathroom.

There’s no magic powerful enough to stop the strong heave of nausea that rolls through him, and it feels like his stomach’s turning inside out. Merlin hates throwing up, hates it with a fierce passion, and this is exactly why. He mutes the retching noises with magic -- at least he’s capable of that much in his current sorry state.

“Oh hell,” he whispers to the bowl once he feels better, and flashes it clean with magic. “Is this happening?”

Screwing his eyes shut and willing it to all go away doesn’t help. So, yes, he’s been very, very stupid, it’s already happened, and he has no idea how to deal with the aftermath. 

Not ready to face the music yet, Merlin spends some more time in the bathroom. He finds a toothbrush sealed in plastic and a small tube of paste on the counter, and spends forever brushing his teeth and scrubbing his tongue. The mirror is fogged up, and as the clarity starts finally returning to him, he notes things. Like a second, already-unpacked toothbrush propped in a cup on the sink. He touches it -- wet. A used towel is dropped on the floor, and there’s a warm mist hanging in the air -- a sign of someone recently having taken a shower. _Someone’s_ an early riser. Merlin rolls his eyes.  

With not a small amount of trepidation, he wipes the condensation off the glass and faces himself in the mirror. His hair is a mess, the red line on his unshaven chin is obviously a stubble burn, and his irises have thin golden circles gleaming around them that appear only after those special occasions of extremely satisfying sexual encounters. Merlin can’t recall how long it's been since the last time he’s seen these. Three years? Five? Because there’s a big difference between a good shag and a truly magical one. What happened last night was something Merlin can’t place into one particular bucket. The truth is, he’s afraid he’d have to come up with a brand-new category; for now, it’s called “denial”.

Aside from that small sign of his magic being sated to the point of being blissfully comatose, and pillow creases running on one side from deep sleep, his face is clear of any signs of unsavoury debauchery: no tattoos on his forehead, no piercings, and all his teeth are still in place. Even the wisdom ones -- fat lot of good they’re for, considering his current predicament.

Just to make sure Merlin hasn’t made any more unexpected friends last night than he remembers, he checks behind the frosted shower glass. Who knows, there could be tigers, snakes, or -- with his luck -- Mike Tyson, personally, waiting in the tub. Merlin really, really doesn’t feel like meeting Mike Tyson starkers right now. Or ever.

Arthur startles him by knocking on the door. “Merlin? Are you all right there?" The handle jiggles once, twice.

Merlin freezes without answering.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls again after a pause, not as demanding. “Listen, I need to go downstairs, extend the room reservation and such. Will you be okay? Do you need anything?”

Merlin takes a quiet step to the door but doesn’t open it. The silence in the air between them is so acute, Merlin can hear Arthur’s soft breathing, then, a resigned sigh. He thinks he can sense Arthur placing a hand on the door outside, and he leans into where he feels the warmth, pressing his temple to the spot.

Arthur’s feet shuffle on the carpet on the other side. “All right. Just promise me you'll wait until I'm back. I--” He mumbles something. Then clears his throat. “I’d like to talk, Merlin. Properly.”

Merlin stifles a snort. Sure. Haven’t they done things _properly_ already? Done a lot of things, all night long, very proper things. Isn’t that why Merlin can’t face Arthur right now? 

“I'm going,” Arthur says, his low, warm voice right at Merlin's ear. “I’ll be back soon.”

Merlin stays motionless, and only when he hears the door at the end of the hallway squeak and click shut, does he exhale a long breath and come out of the bathroom into the empty room.

The bed is fixed, obviously by the steady accountant's hand, but he finds no trace of his newly-acquainted beau. Snatching a piece of toast from the plate waiting for him on the nightstand, he makes a quick survey of the surroundings. No clothes in the closet, no bags, not even a single piece of candy wrapper in the rubbish bin -- even condoms are gone. The only evidence of Arthur ever being here is a picture of them together taken last night, sitting on the table, and Merlin's clothes on the chair, now neatly folded. What if Arthur lied and he won't be back? Merlin can't decide whether it's a good or bad thing. It's not like Merlin to be unsure, and that's extremely unsettling.

He finds his mobile in the pocket of his denims, unlocks it, and dials a familiar number.

“M, you bastard, you finally called, but d'you know what time it is here?” Elena’s sleepy voice comes on the line.

“I don’t know what time it is, period,” Merlin says in a hushed tone.

“Why are you whispering?” Elena asks. “It's the middle of a day for you. Hey, are you all right?”

Merlin huffs out a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a laugh but is more like a wheeze. “In a physical sense? Yes. Brilliant, actually. At least my magic thinks so.”

Elena sniffs softly. “Yeah? S’good.” She drawls her words a little. “Where are you, M?” She yawns.

Merlin glances around, his eyes falling on the notepad on the table. “The Venetian, actually. Uh. Room 1856, I think?”

“You think?” Elena’s tone rises. She doesn’t sound concerned yet, but it’s a near thing.

“E, I’m so buggered,” Merlin confesses. “God.”

Elena laughs. “Congratulations on the goal achieved, but I really don’t need the details, if that’s why you called.”

“Shut it.” Merlin covers his eyes with his hand. “It’s not that. Well, that too. By the feel and looks of it, I mean, but I'm not complaining about that part.”

“Oh, bless the mighty goddess of love and procreation,” Elena says with deep sincerity.

“Procre-- what?” Merlin sputters. “Elena, you cow, no. Listen, I'm in a bit of a situation.”

“Gambling problem already?”

“If I could strangle you right now, I would,” Merlin promises. “Never mind you, then. I’ll call Gwaine.”

“No, no,” Elena says quickly. “You don’t need to bother Gwaine, he’s--”

 _“_ \--Right here,” Merlin hears in a familiar grumble.

“You--” Merlin sputters. “Oh my god… You sneaky, lying, horny bastards. I hate both of you right now,” he swears. “You’ve been giving me a hard time about my love life for… forever! While you... Fuckers.”

Both his so-called friends snicker.

“You find it funny, huh? Do you reckon how many curses I know to hurt you?” Merlin asks, meaning to make it vicious. It has no heat whatsoever. 

“Calm down, kitten, keep your knickers on. Assuming they _are_ on...” Gwaine muses.

“I’m hanging up and never talking to either of you again. I’m transferring to… to Albania! And recruiting a new team. I hate your stupid faces,” Merlin vows. Now he does feel worked up, although he’s still so out of sorts, he doubts he can make anything he says convincing.

“Sounds serious, El,” Gwaine contemplates.

“It is!” Merlin almost shouts. “I’ve done a very stupid thing!”

_Like gotten married._

“Gwaine, give it back here,” Elena demands, the phone rustling on the other end. “M, I’m sorry, we’ve gone a bit overboard. Tell us what you need. Is it the mission?”

“No. It’s personal. But… I dunno. Okay, E. I’m sorry I dragged you out of bed. Though _the git_ there,” he raises his voice for Gwaine to hear, “doesn’t deserve you.”

“Preach,” Elena says, and then, smothered, “Gwaine, get off. I’ll kick you out.” A few seconds later, “Okay, M, I'm ready. What do you need?”

“Basically, I need a new ID.”

“Sure. Where are you trying to get in?”

“No, E, I need a new name, records changed, everything.”

Elena keeps silent for a moment, then says, “Oookay. That… M, have you blown your cover?”

Merlin rubs his face. “No. I mean, I don’t think so? But there’s a slight possibility?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No?”

“M, what’s going on?”

Merlin hesitates, considering spinning the story to make it less embarrassing, and that’s wrong. He can’t have secrets from his team. Secrets kill not only friendships, they take lives.

He blows out a loud breath. “Imighthavegoneandgotmarriedlastnight,” he blurts out.

Gwaine laughs.“You what? M, I thought I just heard you say you got married last night?”

Merlin heaves a suffering sigh.

“Okay.” Elena speaks again, her tone decisive. “Gwaine, be a babe and get me some water, would you? I’m really thirsty.”

Merlin smiles. Elena can be a bit of a babbling, stumbling mess at times, but she’s also known for her sixth sense when shite hits the fan and things get real. Gwaine grunts his displeasure, but Elena just shushes him, and Merlin can hear a smack, almost picturing her slapping Gwaine’s naked -- no doubt -- arse. These two are made for each other.

“M? Now, first things first -- are you safe? Do you need me to get you out?” He can hear Elena start typing something at the speed of light, the keys beeping under her fingers.

“No, I’m fine, but I can’t talk long.”

“Got it. Give me the skinny, then.”

Merlin glances at the entrance door, thinking he hears something, and quickly sends his magic out to check, but there's no one behind the door.

He’s left his comm in the car last night, only pocketing his mobile and money for the evening, figuring if he really wanted a night off, he better leave everything to do with work behind. He misses it now while he’s trying to talk and dress at the same time.

Struggling to put on his slim-fitting trousers (they didn't feel so obscenely tight yesterday), he can think of a couple of other things he’d really like back right now. Like his boxers. And his dignity. Zipping the denims over his naked flesh is a somewhat terrifying process, but he manages it without severing any important bits and grunts triumphantly when done.

“M?” 

“Here.” He moves to the window and glances down. They’re definitely high up, so his assessment was right.

“Long story short, I met a bloke, we hit it off and… Well...” He glances at the Polaroid picture -- a memento that Arthur deliberately (Merlin has no questions about it) left for him. “We’re married now.”

“I see," Elena says. "Do you need a lawyer? Because I can check with my Da."

“I--” Merlin picks up the picture. Arthur and Merlin kissing in front of Elvis, glowing in his white rhinestone-onesied glory. He doesn’t remember much from the ceremony, but with Arthur’s hands splayed on Merlin’s hips and with Merlin’s fingers in Arthur’s hair he remembers to be very soft, they both look like it meant something to them. He just doesn’t know what to do with all this now.

He chews on his lip, thinking, not ready to make that decision yet. One thing he knows -- he’s not running away. And if he doesn't, he has to take all reasonable and professional precautions.

“I’ll let you know, E, thank you. But for now, I need an identity and it must check out. Starting with a new passport."

"But the bloke you married doesn't know you’re an agent, right?" Elena asks.

"The bloke doesn't even know my surname. Just that I’m Merlin."

"Brilliant. And what do you know about _him_?"

Merlin scratches his brow. Trying to jog his memory brings little results. "He's an accountant? No, analyst! Like a financier... I'm pretty sure. But he hates banks. Lives in London, he said..."

"Oh god," Elena says under her breath. "M, I am trying very hard here not to judge you... But what the hell were you thinking?"

"Skipping right to tough love, are you?” Like he isn't upset enough with himself. “You owe me a wedding present.”

“How about a hard kick to your behind?” she asks. “All right, I’ll have someone from the Embassy deliver a new passport for you to the airport. I'll text you in a few hours and tell where it'll be waiting for you. You can tell your bloke you were so pissed last night, you lost it. By the way, were you?”

“Thank you. Was I what?”

“Pissed last night? Is that why the coolest, smartest agent I’ve ever met in my life--” (Gwaine objects with, “Oi! I thought that was me!”) "--decided to live up to the famous ‘What happens in Vegas...’?” Elena asks, ignoring Gwaine. “Imagine what the rest of the boys here would say if they get a whiff of this.”

Merlin presses his forehead to the warm glass, closing his eyes. “How do you know I didn’t want this?” he asks quietly. “I haven’t been home in months, E. How can you even--”

“Mer--”

"Don’t." Merlin can’t -- doesn’t want to -- deal with someone patronising him. “E, I know. But you said you’ll try not to judge. Try harder, yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“S’fine. I’ve been foolish, and we did drink a lot yesterday. I deserve this, I guess, but s’not like I don’t know it already.”

“Where’s the guy now?”

“Arthur. His name is Arthur,” Merlin says with an exhale. Without meaning it, he comes off as defensive, but at some point -- and Merlin can’t say exactly when it happened -- it started feeling wrong to speak about Arthur as a stranger. Arthur’s more -- or he can be. Hell, this is confusing.

“He stepped out,” he says, scrubbing his face.

“Where’s the Triskelion, M?” Gwaine asks. Kudos to him for staying out of the conversation for this long, but it’s a valid question. Of course it is, and luckily this time, the answer is easy.

“Still where I left it yesterday. In the car,” Merlin says confidently, the thrum of magic still there, never waning since he established the connection with the artifact yesterday. “Arthur has nothing to do with it.”

Gwaine hums.

“What about your magic?” Elena asks. “Were you careful?”

Merlin falters. “I-- That’s… So, there was a lot of drinking, and...” he tries to explain.

“M, he _can’t_ know. Certainly, not about yours,” Elena says urgently.

“I wasn’t advertising it, okay?” _Bollocks._ “I don’t think he knows. Just… Give me time. I’ll figure this all out.”

Elena’s silence speaks louder than any admonishing words.

Merlin picks up his shirt, puts it on, and starts buttoning it up, only to find that half of the buttons are missing. The images from last night start flooding his mind. Arthur pushing him inside the room, pressing him to the wall, snogging the living daylights out of him. Merlin using magic while burying his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck and shedding Arthur’s ridiculous shorts that weren’t cooperating. Arthur shuffling them to bed, backwards. Laying Merlin carefully down and proceeding -- not so carefully -- taking him apart. With hungry tongue laving and sucking on Merlin’s left nipple, then right, with slick fingers deep and relentless in his arse and a sure hand stripping his cock, all at the same time. Touching, tasting, crying out, spilling. Seed, longing, promises. Giving it all out. All that -- without a single moment of regret or uncertainty. Arthur didn’t look like he was going to take any of last night back. Arthur stayed.

“I’ll figure it out,” Merlin says again.

“So, you’re bringing your Arthur home?” Elena asks. “Want me to put a check on him?”

Merlin hesitates.

“No. Not yet.”

Elena sighs. “Your call.” She pauses. “Now, M… You know what to do.”

Merlin makes an exasperated sound. “Yes.”

“Go on, don’t make your newlywed wait,” she teases. “And by the way, if you need time off for your honeymoon, you better talk to Gaius yourself.”

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” Gwaine says.

“Seriously,” Merlin mutters. “I thought we were friends.”

“You don’t get married without your friends at your wedding,” Elena deadpans.

“Point,” Merlin concedes, realising a moment a later that he's just stolen Arthur’s line. Just look at that: married less than twenty-four hours and he’s already acting alike with his other half. “Hold," he says, slipping into his formal tone. He thumbs the side of his mobile and once he finds the ridge he was looking for, presses into it, feeling a prickle of a needle. His mobile beeps, indicating that the blood test has been processed and sent.

He sees a red drop oozing out of the pad of his finger and brings it to his mouth.

“Got it, E?” he asks.

“Yes. I’ll let you know if we find anything suspicious.”

“Aside from the evidence of a terrible hangover, I highly doubt it,” Merlin says.

“Just a standard procedure,” Elena soothes.

“Right,” he grumbles just as the door opens, and he jumps in surprise. Some agent he is. “Gotta go now.”

Merlin quickly ends the conversation and turns around, a nervous smile on his face.

 

~LV~

 

“I see you’ve made those calls.” Arthur moves into the room, a paper bag in his hand. He raises his voice a little at the end of the sentence, making it as if it’s a question but not really, like he’s sure about what Merlin's been discussing in his absence. Sure and approves it.

Merlin pushes his mobile into the front pocket of his too-tight trousers, frustrated with how it just doesn’t fit, so he shoves it in the back. Arthur watches the process with amusement. He’s in his cargos from the previous day, but the Hawaiian shirt’s replaced with a fresh plain white one. Arthur looks good, better than yesterday, actually, even with the stubble dusting his jaw. Merlin kind of digs it.

“I know you don’t fancy the style,” Arthur says, waving at his shorts.

“I never said that.” Merlin smiles.

“You didn’t have to. But you must see now the benefits of having large pockets. Besides, I like how everything breathes when it’s hot.”

Merlin tilts his head. “And by _everything,_ you mean…”

“Don’t play coy, Merlin,” Arthur says. “We both know you’re well acquainted now with what needs to breathe in my trousers.”

“You get to the point quickly,” Merlin says.

“And you’d rather we don’t?”

Arthur walks to the table and opens the bag. He takes out a bottle of painkillers, and slides it in Merlin’s direction, smirking, and Merlin salutes him with two fingers. Shrugging, Arthur reaches into the bag again, pulling a pack of razors, shaving cream, an anti-perspirant stick. A new pair of socks makes an appearance as well, to which Merlin raises his hand.

“I’m fine with your cargos, I am, Arthur, but I’m drawing the line at you wearing the socks. No.”

Arthur cocks his eyebrow. “Like, ever?”

“Not with sandals, no. Whoever told you that it was okay is your worst enemy. You should never speak to that person again.”

“So, a major turn off?” Arthur asks, tossing the socks back into the bag.

“Couldn’t be more major,” Merlin admits.

“Yet, it didn’t stop you last night,” Arthur notes, shifting a small step closer to Merlin.

Merlin tries to pretend he doesn’t notice Arthur’s move and shrugs. “Copious amounts of alcohol, my unfortunate weakness for men with scars and expensive watches.”

“Scars?” Arthur glances down at himself.

Merlin looks pointedly at Arthur’s right knee.

Arthur makes a face. “Ah, yes. There was an accident a few months back. Rockclimbing.”

Merlin moves his eyes up to Arthur’s crotch, letting his gaze linger there.

Arthur follows the line of sight. “What?”

“You said it, Arthur, not me.” Merlin crosses his arms on his chest, leaning on the table. “And you’re right -- I'm well acquainted with what’s in your pants.”

Arthur’s eyes crinkle. “Counted _all_ my scars, did you?”

“And had a great time doing that,” Merlin admits.

The silence that follows is awkward and loaded. The way Merlin figures it, they have only two options. Both are high on risk, and just one high enough on return to make it worthwhile, but Arthur doesn't know Merlin’s penchant for calculating alternatives and there’s no way Merlin would force Arthur’s hand in this decision, so all he can do is stand here and wait for Arthur’s cue.

“So, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says, taking out what looks like a mobile charger, sealed in plastic, from the bag. “What did your lawyer say?” He starts pulling at the edges of the plastic, trying to have it open.

Merlin's heart gives a kick in his chest, but he keeps his voice steady. “I didn’t speak to my lawyer.”

Arthur doesn’t look up, still struggling to get the charger out. Merlin knows these types of packages -- they’re sealed within an inch of their lives and impossible to work out without scissors. But he needs to see Arthur’s eyes when they have this conversation, and Arthur’s not the only one who’d like some reassurance. So it’s completely justified that Merlin pokes the stubborn package with his magic, making small slices at the seams. Arthur’s too busy to notice anyway.

“Did you talk to yours, then?” Merlin asks.

Looking victorious, Arthur rips the plastic apart and pulls the charger out. “No, I didn’t. I took advice from my... from a friend, instead.” His eyes sweep around the room, looking for an outlet.

Merlin places a hand on Arthur’s. “Leave it.”

Arthur finally looks up, and Merlin asks, keeping his voice even, “What was the advice?”

Arthur’s focus shifts somewhere behind Merlin’s shoulder, then back to him, and this time he looks Merlin right in the eyes. “He asked me, asked if I regret this, and said _that_ should be my answer.”

Merlin drops his hand. “Right. So--”

Arthur puts the charger away and edges yet closer, their hips separated only by the corner of the table now. He scratches his stubbled jaw. “So. I figured, you seem like a decent bloke. Easy on the eyes. Kind of funny. Cheeky, even. We had a good time last night.” Merlin snorts, and Arthur corrects himself. “Fine, _I_ had a good time last night. But you weren’t complaining either, so--”

Merlin doesn’t contest it; he just hums non-committally, waiting for the punchline.

“So I figure,” Arthur continues, with more confidence, “I’m a busy man, you seem like a busy man. We’re both Londoners. Compatible in bed.”

“You’re describing friends with benefits, mate,” Merlin suggests, his heart sinking a little.

Arthur frowns. “Well, no.” He’s contemplating it. Then shakes his head, smile tugging one corner of his mouth, more sure. “Not if it’s backed up by this. Right?” He taps twice on their wedding picture still on the table -- the only evidence it happened, since they didn’t bother with rings and there doesn’t seem to be a marriage certificate of any sort, confirming the event. None of that makes last night less real, of course.

He looks up at Arthur, who spreads his arms in a gesture of appeal. “I’m saying, who has the time for mating games anymore? Why waste it on courting?”

Merlin chuckles at Arthur’s earnest expression. “What a compelling reasoning. Why indeed?”

“So it only makes sense,” Arthur says, encouraged, “that we skipped a few formalities, but it’s the end result that matters.”

Merlin cocks his head, amused by Arthur’s determined eagerness. “And what’s the end result?”

Arthur places his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, pulling a serious face. “I’m a real catch, Merlin. _I’m_ the end result.”

Merlin wants to feel offended, he does. Show that he’s insulted, and what the bloody hell does this conceited wanker think, Merlin isn’t a catch? But Arthur’s eyes are full of mirth, and when he grins -- a lazy, gorgeous smile that, Merlin can admit now, won him over all the way back when they bickered in the cab -- Merlin has his answer. The end result Arthur isn’t mentioning is that Arthur, too, is willing to take the risk. That to him, Merlin is worth it.

Merlin grins back. “I’m thoroughly impressed. You sure know how to win an argument.”

“I sure do. I’m very, very good at coming in first,” he declares, proud.

Merlin holds up his hand. “According to eyewitness accounts, it’s not always true.”

Arthur snorts once he catches on to the pun. He dips his head, smile turning more suggestive, sly. “I can be a gentleman when the situation calls for it.” Snaking his arm around Merlin’s waist, he pulls him close. “Have you enough proof, or do you need more convincing?”

Merlin purses his lips, pondering it for a beat. “Nope. I’m good. Gonna claim your prize now?” he asks, hopeful, and places a hand on Arthur’s bicep.

Arthur doesn’t kiss him like Merlin expects him to, and Merlin, already impatient, considers just leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Arthur’s -- that would be an easy thing to do. And this is how Merlin learns his first truth about Arthur -- when it matters, Arthur doesn’t take easy routes. This is going to be a challenge, and capturing him is not a guarantee of victory.

All playfulness is gone from Arthur’s demeanor as he moves his hand against Merlin’s back in a sweeping motion, running his fingers up the ridges of his spine, over the blades of his shoulders. He dips them under the collar of Merlin’s shirt; palming his neck, sending goose bumps across his arms.

Their mouths are close, the breathing rough, parted lips sharing air between them, and Merlin wants. He wants. Aches for Arthur’s touch all over, for his tongue, for more and _everything_ , but Arthur’s grip on his neck holds him in place, keeps him still, not letting him move an inch.

“Merlin,” Arthur says with an edge in his voice that surprises Merlin. 

“Arthur,” he says back, and it comes out more like an unspoken question. 

“Are you my husband?” Arthur asks, his eyes, dark with emotion, fixed on Merlin’s. 

Merlin makes a noise in his throat. Placing his hands on Arthur’s hips, he bunches his shirt there in fists, pulling. “I--”

“Merlin, do you want this?” Arthur asks, still refusing to close the last distance between them.

Merlin recognises it, the not well-concealed suggestion that “this” is something that could go beyond this room, beyond this city. This is a real promise, not the one officiated at some shoddy chapel with them arse-drunk, but the real pact is being offered right here and right now.

It's them together, Arthur and Merlin, still unexplored and undiscovered, but quite possibly the most precious treasure Merlin will have the privilege to find.

He steels himself, keen and honest. “Yes, Arthur, yes. I do.”

Arthur exhales a breath and flashes a toothy, infectious smile. Stumbling back, he sinks on the table and pulls Merlin down with him. Merlin goes willingly, fitting in between Arthur’s thighs like it’s where he’s always belonged, and Arthur’s looking pleased with this arrangement all the same.

“Groovy,” he says as if they were just discussing the weather, and casually slides his hands to cup the curves of Merlin’s denim-clad, commando bum to press him down, drive him with a grind right into Arthur’s hips, bucking up in invitation. Arthur does it again, surging up to connect with Merlin, and again, faster, harder.

A heady wave of elation washes over Merlin so intense, he has to screw his eyes shut and bite on his lips. He has to breathe deeply through his nose and will his magic to calm the fuck down, before it does something irrational and has him exposed. The timing of it couldn’t be any worse, but as Merlin brings his magic under control, an image plays in his mind: he's standing on a high hill, hand splayed before him as he commands the wind and earth beneath him. The ground’s moving at his whim, cracking, shifting, and forming into a new land at his feet, vast in scope, dark with rich soil, and ready to take a seed. He sees himself using his power to erect a brand-new city on this land -- a true beauty made of white stone, iron, and painted glass. He can make that happen easily, the magic zapping through him tells him so. This is not something he’s ever imagined before, not on this scale. He’s never had a reason to be this ambitious, and his magic’s never been this suddenly restless. Merlin thinks he knows why now.

This is not because he’s horny and already stiff like a crowbar, desperately needing a release. Wanting to have sex isn’t the reason his magic is overwhelmed. It’s wanting it with _Arthur_ \-- right now, tomorrow, always, and possibly no one else ever -- is what has Merlin shaking, half-scared. Magic is just a reaction to his inability to get his bloody feelings under control.

He moans, distracted, when Arthur arches up to mouth at the side of his jaw, scrapes his teeth along the line. It doesn’t hurt. It only turns Merlin on more.

“M’not shaven. ‘Ve got nothing.” He remembers this at an odd moment, hitching up his shoulder to his ear, and angles his head, trying to catch Arthur’s mouth instead.

“Bought us stuff,” Arthur tells him, butting his head so he can lick and bite down on the shell of his ear, but yet to let Merlin have the kiss he’s been wanting. Merlin huffs in frustration and tries to push him off, which doesn’t work, Arthur having his palms pressed firm at the back of his neck and on his arse. 

“Getting domestic already?” Merlin asks, shivering, when Arthur sucks hard on his earlobe.

In revenge, Merlin rolls his erection into Arthur’s; the table smacks into the wall, shaking and squeaking under their weight. Merlin doesn’t care if it breaks, shoving and rubbing against Arthur, not satisfied until he hears him moan a broken, yielding, “Fuck, fuck... _Merlin_.” 

“I’ll shave,” Merlin promises, and turns his face, his lips meeting Arthur’s cheek. Lowering his tone to a husky, suggestive whisper, he asks, “Have any special requests?” and rocks into Arthur again with such vigour, he’s sure there’ll be bruises on his hipbones later.    

“You…” Arthur gasps, grabbing Merlin’s leg and hitching it higher for a better position, and after that, for a while, all they do is rut frantically against each other, trying to get each other off with their thighs and hands, and urgent groans: “Come on, come on, _Arthur_ ,” and, “Merlin, yes, _please_. _Never stop._ ”

Arthur comes first. 

~LV~

 

Merlin has more plans for them after. It involves a shower (and another drawn-out, unhurried hand job after which Merlin’s so out of it, Arthur has to order room service on his own, again), and yes, shaving of their day-old stubble; the burns on both Arthur and Merlin’s chins stopped being amusing hours ago. Arthur blames Merlin for being an insatiable snogger.

The burgers are delivered to their door on a plate, covered under a silver dome, and are already turning cold by the time they’re done with their shower. Arthur pushes one into Merlin’s hand and demands, “Eat,” and watches with a sort of muted, soft veneration as Merlin inhales it and licks his greasy fingers, looking as infatuated as Merlin feels. Merlin snatches a chip from Arthur’s raised hand to pop it into his mouth and asks, “What?” making an innocent face. Arthur shakes his head and laughs, pushing the plate with the rest of the chips over to Merlin. Merlin hums his appreciation and clears off the plate. 

It is a bit domestic, as they stand in front of the bathroom vanity, gliding razors across their cheeks while watching each other in the mirror. The silence between them isn’t awkward, it’s… It’s what Merlin imagines them doing every morning back home before going to the office. Except, he reminds himself, he actually doesn’t have a nine-to-five job. 

They end up in bed after that, and kiss for what seems like hours. The time’s barely moving, dust particles suspended in the air around them. Merlin keeps his eyes closed, afraid Arthur will see what their closeness, this blissful state Merlin’s in, does to his magic. It’s going to be a lot more difficult to keep it under wraps from now on, he realises -- if Arthur sticks around. Merlin’s heart gives a painful kick, and he kisses Arthur deeper, digging his fingers into Arthur’s sides. He wishes there were a spell to bind himself to Arthur, to have this forever. His magic, charged currents trilling under his skin, vehemently agrees.

For the first time in his life, he thinks he’ll need to make an effort to control it better. He’s never imagined “control” and “effort” as something he’d use in the same sentence with his magic. It takes everything, _everything_ in him not to pin Arthur on every side and let it curl possessively around him, so he can keep him there.

But he can’t. Both Merlin and Arthur’s mobiles have already gone off too many times without them checking, and maybe that’s why Merlin’s so clingy -- he knows his time here has come to an end. He has to go back to London and deliver Triskelion to the Agency before Gaius and Morgana send a hunting expedition after him. He knows _he_ would, if his best agent with off-the-chart magical abilities went off the grid for almost 24 hours on a shagging spree, while having in his possession THE artifact that everyone was pissing their pants about. If he knows Morgana, she’ll probably make an artifact out of Merlin himself. Like a stuffed bird, or worse -- a couch. “Since you’re so fond of shagging at my expense, you will have it, Merlin.” He can already hear her derisive laugh. Merlin shudders.

There’s never a dull moment for him as an agent, and he likes to think of that as a good thing. As long as there are pieces of magic found in the world and magic needs saving -- it means it still exists and Merlin has a purpose. So, it’s time to remember what it is he’s been sent to Vegas for and get a move on. 

“I better take this,” Arthur mumbles into his cheek when his mobile starts going off yet again.

Merlin sighs and extricates his limbs from Arthur before rolling out of the bed. They dress, occasionally glancing at each other and smiling. _It’s not over,_ Merlin repeats to himself with every article of clothing he puts on. _It’s not over yet._

There are sixteen text messages on Merlin’s mobile, and several missed phone calls. Arthur’s jaw is tensing as he checks his own -- a device looking so archaic, Merlin stares at Arthur with his hand on his hip and an accusing expression.

“What?” Arthur asks, still scrolling through the screen.

“How old is that thing?” Merlin asks.

Arthur turns his mobile front to back in his hand, perplexed. “I dunno. A year?”

Merlin huffs. “Was it part of your inheritance from your great-grandparents?”

A deep line forms between Arthur’s brows. He types something quickly and presses a button, then looks up at Merlin as if he doesn’t understand what Merlin’s on about. “It was the latest model.”

“Yeah, in 1993,” Merlin scoffs.

Arthur snorts and extends his hand. “Show me yours, Mr Latest Gismo.”

“Mr Smith,” Merlin corrects him, smiling. “It’s top secret,” he says, which is not entirely untrue.

Arthur’s frown smooths away, replaced by a dopey grin that says he’s momentarily forgotten what their entire conversation was about, and Merlin shakes his head.

“I’m getting you a new device as soon as we get in London,” he promises and slides his mobile into his back pocket. Arthur follows Merlin’s movements with his eyes, then looks up, shaking off whatever he was thinking. Probably something dirty.

“In London...” He echoes the last thing Merlin said, his gaze distracted. 

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “Where we both live.” He feels the smile sliding off his face, and a little bit colder. “Err. Or... maybe not?”

Arthur rubs his hand over his mouth, his eyes darting back to his mobile, his expression of someone whose thoughts aren’t here. Merlin coughs into his hand, which snaps Arthur out of his trance.

“What? I’m sorry.”

Merlin purses his lips. “Don’t make me ask you twice, Arthur.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpens, and he looks like he’s rewinding their conversation in his head. “Oh. Right.” He glances at his mobile again, and then back at Merlin, apologetic. “I’m sorry, Merlin, I’m afraid I’m not going home just yet.”

Merlin nods dumbly. He can see where it’s going. “Ah. All right. I understand.”

He shuffles to step around Arthur, ready to bolt, when Arthur grabs his arm. “But we should absolutely exchange numbers. I’ll be in London very soon.”

Merlin huffs, relieved and feeling silly, both about worrying he’s been discarded without another thought and that one simple promise from Arthur can wipe that away. “So you can sext me?”

Arthur cocks his eyebrow. “Yes, Mr Smith, so I can _sext_ you. And whenever the fuck I please.”

 

 

Arthur leaves first -- to check out and catch the Red-eye -- and before he goes, he takes a quick shot of the photo of them together using the camera on his dinosaur device.

“So you don’t forget what a handsome bloke I am?” Merlin teases, while trying not to stare at Arthur too fondly, or like seeing him go makes his stomach churn.

“Exactly,” Arthur agrees with such lightness Merlin instantly doesn’t believe it. “So I don’t accidentally allow an impostor in my bed next time.”

“Expecting many?” Merlin asks, trying to match Arthur’s tone, just as bad of an actor.

“No, Merlin.” Arthur traps Merlin’s chin between his fingers, tipping his head up to meet Arthur’s intent eyes. “Just you.” 

His kiss on Merlin’s lips is brief but firm, proprietary. Merlin doesn’t allow himself to think that it might be their last.

When the room is empty and quiet (too empty and quiet without Arthur’s filling the space with his presence), Merlin looks around again and pats himself, ready to go. On his way out, he picks up the picture from the table and pushes it into his back pocket. Damn tight denims, and damn that fit of kinkery he suffered from last night -- he should’ve kept his old clothes. Which reminds him…

Turning around, he scans over the room again without success. Deeply suspicious, he launches a more thorough search and checks everywhere -- the bed and under, under each chair and the table, opens every drawer, goes to the bathroom, looks under the sink, checks both rubbish bins -- and comes up empty.

“Oh, you bastard,” he swears softly, laughing and shaking his head, and sends a text to Arthur:

_You’re a bloody thief! Give it back!_

Arthur’s reply is instant:

_You’ll have to come and get it, Merlin :) Later._

Merlin knows he will.

 

 ****

Thinking like the logical person Merlin always is, he has no problem convincing himself that everyone on the planet is entitled to occasional time off. Some even have such a thing called “vacations”. It’s a bit more complicated in his line of work, and he can’t remember an instance in his eight years of employment with the Agency when he actually asked for one officially, but he can -- in theory. He’s just never felt the need to, and whatever breaks he’d had before were never planned and normally happened between assignments. Anything beyond a few days of rest -- and he grows bored, so why bother? He always ends up at the Agency looking for things to do, anyway.

So, he absolutely shouldn’t feel this guilty, entering the familiar building after the thirteen-hour flight back to London he spent mostly passed out (but he's still feeling restless) and a short stop by his flat to change. The constant thrum of magic coming from the briefcase in his hand should be the necessary reassurance that Merlin’s been successful. He’s been victorious. He _is_ the very best. 

Yet, as Merlin’s legs carry him out of the lift and towards Gaius’s office, he can’t help the annoying thought that it feels more like he's doing a walk of shame. 

At his destination, Merlin smooths his hair and knocks on Gaius’s open door.

“Well, don’t just _stand_ there, Merlin. Get inside,” Gaius orders, not raising his head full of respectably-white hair from his papers. “The sooner you’re in, the sooner you’re out.”

“How out?” Merlin asks, gingerly stepping into the room.

Gaius looks up, his right eyebrow taking a quick trip to meet the hairline as he assesses Merlin’s humbled stance. Smacking his lips, he tuts his disapproval at what he sees. “Sit.“ He points.

Merlin is a well-respected agent and a grown man, so he absolutely doesn’t trip over the air as he crosses the room at the invitation. Of course, both those accounts can be seriously questioned after the things he’s been up to and on the Agency’s time.

“You can stop shaking in your boots,” Gaius tells him. “You are not fired. _Yet._ I haven’t seen your full report.”

“I’ll have it all typed and sent to you shortly,” Merlin says quickly.

“I’m sure it will be an interesting read. Show me,” Gaius says, slating his gaze on the briefcase on Merlin’s lap. He doesn’t have to ask twice.

When Merlin opens the lid, the surge of magic overwhelms him just as much as when Borden did it for him two days ago. Gaius blinks and smiles, but Merlin can’t tell whether it’s because he’s affected by the ancient power of the artifact or just by the sight of such rare relic. To Merlin, it is indeed the strongest he’s had a chance to encounter.

Pushing the opened case to Gaius, Merlin keeps his hands around it; inexplicably, he feels something like protectiveness towards the object inside. _Or maybe there’s an explanation_ , Merlin starts thinking. _It’s because it’s_ broken _,_ comes to his mind. _It’s been taken apart by some cruel hand and is separated_.

He imagines this as if it’s been done to a living being, and reasons with himself at this unordinary thought that magic _is_ at the source of life -- and therefore alive -- and can suffer just as much as someone with a beating heart. What’s been done to this artifact is very wrong.

“Gaius, do you feel it?” he asks, and tries to push his own magic towards Triskelion, to send some comfort. _I’m here. I have you now. And I’ll find a way to fix you._ It feels to him like he’s just made a vow.

“It’s strong magic,” Gaius answers with a nod. “But wait--”

Arming himself with the magnifying glass he never parts with, Gaius bends over the briefcase. “Have you touched it?” he asks, studying the artifact at a close distance.

Merlin leans closer too and shakes his head. “No, this is how it came to me, Gaius. And it feels like I shouldn’t.” He’s looking for the explanation that won’t make him sound like a loon who believes that an artifact’s hurting. “It wields a strong power, but it’s broken, confused,” is the best he can come up with.

Gaius straightens up, his comically huge eye blinking behind the magnifying glass he’s still holding at his face. Merlin can see the faded-brown of his iris, a busy web of blood vessels; short, colorless lashes; and his white brow sticking out like a prickly bush. This close, it’s obvious that it grows unevenly and could use some trimming, and Merlin wonders how something so trite and _human_ can have the power of reducing grown men to mumbling children.  

“Yes, yes,” Gaius muses, returning his attention to the Triskelion, unaware of Merlin’s epiphanies. “I see uneven edges here.” He turns to the computer on his desk. “Let me pull up the record with the old transcript that has a drawing.”

“I have it,” Merlin says, taking his mobile out. “Here.”

Gaius puts the magnified glass down in favour of studying the drawing of the Triskelion saved in Merlin’s files. “Yes, yes. It’s missing two pieces. Just imagine the kind of power it carried when whole.”

Merlin opens his mouth to express his agreement and is interrupted by the ringing of the phone on Gaius’s desk.

“Gaius speaking.” The old man’s back straightens as he hears the voice on the other end of the phone and he pushes his shoulders back a little -- as much as his aging bones let him. Merlin watches him with fondness. “Yes, he’s here.” Gaius glances at Merlin, his face turning stoic. “He has… Yes, of course. Right away.”

Merlin knows without being told that he’s being summoned by the higher ups, and specifically by--

“Morgana,” Gaius says, hanging up, “is expecting us. Right now.”

“Oh bugger,” Merlin groans.

“Language, Merlin,” Gaius warns him.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Gaius asks, his voice rising a whole octave higher,which happens, Merlin knows, only when his mentor’s very, _very_ cross. “I can’t even begin to cover how very sorry you will be after Morgana’s through with you. Just so you know, this time I won’t say a word to help you.”

“Gaius--” Merlin starts.

Gaius doesn’t let him finish.“You disappeared, Merlin. Apparently, decided it was a good idea to have a holiday without so much as a word to me.”

“It was supposed to be just for one evening,” Merlin tries to explain, quickly realising by Gaius’s thunderous glare that he’s only making his case worse.

“We’ll not discuss this now. Morgana’s waiting.”

He shuts up and follows.

 

~LDN~

 

As a boss, Morgana LeFay kicks ass.

It's true that she's managed to climb up the organisation's ladder so impressively quickly, becoming the first female Head of the Agency at only thirty-three, that some suspect foul play. It's utter bollocks. Morgana's not only a talented sorceress -- who does _not_ use her gift as a seer for her personal gain, no matter what gossip says -- she's also decisive and quick-witted. She holds herself to the same code of conduct as every other agent, and she is brave. The amount of times she’s stood up for her people and defended magic, the number of artifacts that have been saved as a result of her butting heads with the Chief Officer of Bureau of Corrections' Uther Pendragon, who acts like magic is nothing but evil (and by extension -- Morgana), earns nothing but respect in Merlin's eyes.

It doesn't mean he's looking forward to receive the beating he's about to endure from her, no matter how well-deserved. He expects the worst, although he's decidedly _not_ hiding behind Gaius's back as they enter her office.

Morgana spreads her hands in greeting at the sight of the visitors. “Merrrrrlin,” she’s practically purring, which is never a good sign. “Oh, do come in.” She nods to Merlin’s mentor, gaze significantly more genuine. “Gaius.”

“Ms LeFay,” Gaius responds with a bow of his head.

Morgana resides on the top floor of the building, where normally Merlin has no business. His visits usually only coincide with the high-profile cases he’s assigned from time to time that are "hush-hush" by nature. Depending on the level of delicacy of the issue, Morgana likes to supervise certain topics personally, and in those instances, she prefers to talk to Merlin alone. He recalls one case, particularly sensitive and unpleasant, involving a beautiful Sidhe girl, a powerful enchantment, and a prime minister of Sweden, who woke up one gray Swedish morning and decided it was high time for a war with Finland. Yes, Finland was very surprised. 

Merlin was wiped for days after he had to not only break the Sidhe's unbreakable spell, but also erase the memory of the almost-conflict from the high powers of half the Baltic region.

“We missed you,” Morgana says, sitting down behind her desk, and she can’t sound any more sarcastic. Merlin chooses not to offer to comment, and Gaius keeps appropriately mum as well. This is going to be fun.

“How was Vegas?” she asks, crossing her arms on the table, displaying utmost interest. “Gaius, please take a seat,” she offers kindly. Merlin, obviously, hasn’t deserved such a welcome. He quietly sighs.

Gaius makes a small production out of ceremoniously taking the chair, leaving Merlin awkwardly shifting in the middle of the room.

Morgana gazes at him expectantly.

“Vegas was fine,” Merlin mumbles. What else can he say? _Oh, by the way, boss, I’m also now married._ No thanks. Although he doubts he’ll be able to keep that a secret for long.

“I bet it was,” Morgana suggests, darting her eyes all over him with a foxy smile; Merlin hates it. “Couldn’t wait to celebrate the success of the mission, Wizard?” she asks sympathetically. Her smile disappears. “I hear you left the artifact unattended, which is against the Agency’s code.”

“It was safe,” Merlin objects, offended. Not by the fact that he sucks as an agent, but by the insinuation that he sucks with his magic.

“By whose account?” Morgana shoots back. “You weren’t there. The Agency lost all contact with you, _while_ _still_ _on the mission_ , for a full eighteen hours. You could’ve been dead.”

“Well, I’m not. I don't know what you've been told, but--”

“Quiet, Emrys! You have no place to argue. You should've reported back as soon as you started not feeling like yourself, but I suppose your skills as an agent didn't allow you to recognise the symptoms. That's too bad.”

Merlin goggles. "What?"

"Almost forty-eight hours later, and you still have no clue? Fantastic, agent. Bravo!" She claps slowly, eyes on Merlin, golden-green and unkindly sharp.

He starts dreaming of stabbing himself with something deadly to end this torture. Also, he’s going to kill Elena and Gwaine -- and he knows just the spell to make it especially painful. Unfortunately, Morgana doesn’t leave Merlin to his violent thoughts for long enough to let him enjoy the plotting of the exquisitely slow and elaborate death of his former friends.

“Is that the artifact you’re holding?” She yanks Merlin out of his ardent dwellings with the pitch of her voice. “Your teammates reported there was an issue.”

“Ex-teammates,” Merlin mutters.

“Did you want me to hear that?” Morgana asks, pulling up her dark, shapely eyebrow.

Merlin heaves a sigh. “No. Uh... Would you like to see it?” He lifts the briefcase, grasping at the opportunity to shift the attention from him already.

“No, I called you here because I was dying to see your precious, dimpled face,” Morgana tells him with sweetness so earnest in its fakeness, Merlin wonders if this is a natural talent or acquired skill. “What do you think?” Her tone changes sharply. “Of course I’d like to see it.”

Sighing, Morgana snaps her fingers, calling for Merlin to bring the case forward. “Well?”

Closing his eyes as he waits for the onslaught of magic to crush into him again, he lets Morgana see the Triskelion. Predictably, Morgana frowns when the case is opened.

Merlin breathes through his mouth a few times, feeling a little sick. “There’s something wrong with its magic,” he says morosely.

Morgana doesn’t answer for the longest time, staring at the artifact. “No, Merlin. There’s never anything wrong with the magic. What is wrong is how it’s being treated.” She raises her eyes from the Triskelion to him. “We can’t leave it this way.”

“There’s an inscription,” Gaius speaks up for the first time since they came in. He produces his favourite magnifying glass from the pocket of his office coat.

Morgana eagerly takes it and moves to study the artifact again.

“Yes,” she says after a while. “I can’t read it. Gaius, do you recognise the language?”

Gaius shakes his head. “No. I can try to figure it out, but the message is not complete, and I doubt we’ll figure it out unless we recover the rest of the pieces.”

"Right..." Morgana bites her lip, thinking, and turns to Merlin again. “So… Emrys…” She draws his name out, in a challenge. “You look rested enough for me.”

“So, not fired, then?” he asks, feeling smug.

“I won’t give you the pleasure.” Morgana smiles, just a touch of warmth there. “Besides, we both know you need this,” she says vaguely.

 _I think I need to know what Arthur’s doing right now,_ Merlin thinks, surprised at this sudden burst of longing. They haven’t exchanged a word since their last text in Vegas. Merlin didn’t want to contact Arthur first.

He shakes himself out of the unexpected funk and focuses his eyes on Morgana. “I'm very interested,” he admits. “And I’d like to request to make this my main assignment. I do feel like I have to retrieve what’s missing of Triskelion myself.”

“Yes, fine with me,” Morgana says and adds, “Gaius, I need a word with Merlin alone.”

Gaius goes with a nod.

Morgana studies Merlin in uncomfortable silence. He’s still standing.

“Are you all right, Merlin?” she asks.

Merlin sighs. “I think so. Not going to lie, it’s been a weird few days.”

“No sightings?” she asks, and Merlin knows right away what she means. Like the true professional he is (most of the time), he’s been disclosing the details of his failed missions (although he kept the turtle coins and by now he has 4, two other agents have 1 each) and there's no way he'd hide something like the Bureau challenging the Agency in the rudest manner during missions. Why would he? It’s nothing personal -- just an agent and an officer, going head to head, doing their jobs.

“I wouldn’t even know what to look for," Merlin says. "We don’t even know if it’s the same person taking me for a spin.”

“Most likely,” Morgana says, tapping her fingers on the desk.

Merlin stares at her in appraisal. “You sound like you know more than you’re willing to share.”

Morgana closes the briefcase and pushes it to Merlin. “Maybe I am. Maybe not." She picks up a folder from her desk. "Merlin, I want you to take this."

Merlin opens the folder. "What’s this?"

"Healing spells. I want you to study them," Morgana says, her gaze on him firm.

“Why?”

"Because I’ve seen something. You’ll thank me later."

Merlin knows better than to question Morgana’s visions, which have been known to save agents’ lives. But as a senior member of the organisation, he would still appreciate a little more disclosure.

"Patience, Emrys. And diligence. Be a good agent for once and follow your instructions.”

“Fine,” Merlin grumbles. “Can I go now?”

“Sure.” Morgana smiles.

Merlin rises to his feet and, picking up the briefcase, gives her a short goodbye nod.

“Oh, and Merlin,” she calls when he reaches the door of her office. He turns around. “As a way of practice, why don’t you start with that massive hickey on your neck?” she suggests.

Merlin flushes, ducks, and flees. 

 

~LDN~

 

“Oh look, our Wizard is home!” Elena enters Merlin’s space, which is technically his office, but has been mostly serving as an IT-room-cum-knick-knacks-storage of things colleagues give up and Merlin turns into something useful. There are neat piles of indefinable (and of course very important) things everywhere; they are all somehow organised, but only Merlin knows the system. To the untrained eye (also known as "everyone else but Merlin"), it looks like a mess. Just like Elena's blonde hair and her office coat that she can never button right. Oh, how he’s missed her. Merlin wants to go and hug her, but then he _remembers,_ and assumes a neutral pose in his chair instead.

“Why don’t you ever use magic for all this?” she asks, waving her hand around and wrinkling her nose. “How do you find anything here?”

“One,” Merlin says, “you know my magic is not designed for cleaning and it'll only end up making things worse. Two: I find things just fine. And three: you don’t need to worry about it.” He’s refusing to look at her. Besides, haven’t they discussed this a hundred times already?

“I very much worry.” Elena sneezes. “Merlin, stop it.”

“Not doing anything,” he denies.

“Yes, you are!” she insists, collecting a stack of discarded computer parts from what’s supposed to be a chair and is currently acting as a shelf for electronics, and transferring it to Merlin's already busy desk.

“If you’re allergic, you shouldn’t be here.” Merlin’s very busy pushing a new upgrade to his mobile (and also secretly despairing that he just removed the last evidence of his lawful tryst with his maybe-still-husband from his neck. Who knew he’d be so upset about it?)

“I’m allergic to your shifty, passive-aggressive face.” Elena silently moves her lips and flicks her finger, starting a bit of fire and smoke under Merlin’s chair. Because she can and because he’s clearly being a miserable twat, Merlin reads from her self-satisfied expression. She's called him that many many times.

“Whatever,” he mutters, going back to his mobile. He taps his foot, and the fire and smoke die at once. “I’m not talking to the likes of you. There’s the door.”

“Oh, I see,” Elena drawls, picking up a part from the pile she just deposited on the desk. “Of _course_ , now that you have a new, _shaggable_ pet, whom you accidentally _married_ ," she raises her voice considerably, waving the part in the air threateningly, and before Merlin can grab it, drops it, making a lot of noise, "you don't need your old friends anymore."

“Sh-shhhh,” Merlin demands. His eyes widen and the door to the hallway flies shut. "Keep it quiet!"

“Why?” she asks, still loud, crossing her arms on her chest. “Hiding something?”

“Nothing that’s anyone’s business,” Merlin hisses, and adds, firmer, “or that warrants airing my personal laundry in a report.”

“Ahhh.” Elena nods her head slowly. “That’s what it’s all about.”

Merlin purses his lips in a sour line. “You ratted me out. Morgana…” He lowers his voice once again, just in case. “Morgana was terrible to me just now. She practically tore me a new one.”

“Oh, and you figured why not live up to your new status and act like a _total_ _arsehole_ ,” Elena mocks. "So you blame me for Morgana."

“There are only two people who were privy to the details of the mission. Gwaine can’t write anything intelligent to save his life. I don’t even think he can spell words with more than three letters in them. So that leaves us with just one suspect… Who could that be? Oh, wait… It’s you!” Merlin points and glares.

“You know, for a super agent, you can be extremely daft sometimes,” Elena says with a sigh.

“Oh, great. More shit. Thank you very much.”

“No, I mean it,” she insists, leaning closer to a vexed Merlin. “Shall I remind you about the protocol? Of any mission?”

“I’d like to see the article in there about telling on your friends,” Merlin suggests sarcastically.

“I wasn’t telling on you!” Elena cries. “I reported a successful mission! Moreover, I lied to my superiors for you -- just to buy you more time in Vegas for your shagging, you tit!”

Something both softens and shrinks in Merlin’s chest at Elena’s words. He’s still too upset about his meeting with Morgana and what it did to his reputation to admit he’s been actually more embarrassed than angry. But she’s right -- he’s an awful person. He just needs to take it out on someone, and if he can’t do that with his best friend, who out of all people should _understand_ him, then what else is left but to probably wither from all the unwelcome, confusing _feelings_ he’s been confounded with in the past couple of days?

“You didn’t have to tell them I left the artifact in the car,” he insists, looking away.

“Yes, I did,” Elena says firmly. “It’s my bloody job, Merlin. I stated that you took every precaution but were too wiped to travel, so you got yourself a room and spent a night resting.”

“Solid,” Merlin comments, still sounding peeved.

“Next time, you do better,” she shoots back. “It would’ve worked. But then you needed a new passport, remember? And I needed to take a few extra steps to ensure your new cover. Like switch your name on the papers for your flat. Change some records. NHS, your sixth form, uni. You needed a story, right? I’ve emailed you, you’ve read your new file.”

“Yeah.” Merlin rubs his face. What had he got himself into? And his friend?

“So, I’m assuming what I did triggered a system of additional checks and it went to Morgana. You know her, she has her fingers in _everything_.”

“Dear fucking god,” Merlin mumbles. “Did she call for you? Was it bad?”

Elena shrugs. “There was an hour-long briefing. She made me spill the beans… Not--” she adds quickly “-- about your shotgun marriage. I managed to cover that up, but just. I tried to tell her you were worried that Alvarr saw you. Borden. And then there was the bit about you probably eating something bad… I mentioned barfing… I think I even said something about overtime and lack of compensation…”

“Oh jesus… And?”

Elena lowers her eyes. “Okay, fine, she knows about your going on a prowl. I’m sorry.” She looks most certainly guilty now.

“Oh Elena, what kind of an agent are you?” Merlin asks, smiling softly.

“Obviously, I’m pants at lying, and tend to get myself into trouble with the bosses,” she admits. “I'm better when I work behind the scenes. But just so you know, I wasn’t that terrible.”

“Not good enough for Morgana to believe you,” Merlin counters. "She was furious. And she mentioned something about me being clueless… Huh?"

Elena shakes her head. “You’re forgetting something."

"What?"

"Your results are back.”

It takes Merlin a moment. “Blood results?”

Elena nods. “I sent them to you a few minutes ago. Power up your mobile.”

Merlin glances at his currently lifeless device. “I can’t right now... What is it?”

“We have new evidence,” Elena says.

“We?”

“I had to go to Gaius.”  Elena looks at him pleadingly. “And he went to Morgana like he always does. It’s serious, Merlin.”

Merlin sighs. So more embarrassment it is.

“When isn't it? What’s wrong?" he asks. "You found more alcohol than blood in my system? Since when it’s Morgana’s business?”

“That’s not it. We believe you’ve been drugged with magic.”

Merlin blinks. "Drugged?"

"Yes." Elena's face is too serious for this to be a practical joke. "On top of being drunk."

Merlin blurts out the very first thing that comes to his mind. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t Arthur.”

“How do you figure?”

“Arthur has no magic.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

Merlin blushes. “I'd feel it. We’ve spent enough time completely... uh...  exposed? You don’t need to worry. I promise, if there was anything magical, it was less to do with sorcery and a lot more with the size of his--”

“La-la-la-la,” Elena starts singing, sticking her fingers in her ears. “I do not want to hear that! I swear -- zero interest!”

“--wallet,” Merlin finishes. “Elena, you’re extremely pervy. On the other hand, you're apparently shagging Gwaine now -- which I’m yet to torment you about  -- so you’ve no place to talk.”

And it’s now Elena’s turn to assume scarlet colour to her cheeks. “Err...You know, I’ve always kind of had this thing for him…”

“Everyone knew that, even Gwaine. And I swear, if he took advantage of your weak heart--”

“No, no,” Elena interrupts him. “Very consensual, even kind of planned. Don’t worry."

"Oh, you bint," Merlin says lovingly. "You _seduced_ him? Gwaine?"

"Well, no... It wasn't... Now, hold on!" Elena halts her mumbling and points at him. "Merlin, you twat, this is not about me!” Her hair, in total disarray, sticks out even more in commiseration with its owner.

Merlin wishes he didn’t have to go back to talking about what potentially could be depressing news. “Right,” he sighs. “So you think I’ve been duped.”

“Not me thinking it -- evidence speaks for itself,” Elena says, turning stern. “Based on what we’ve found in your bloodstream."

"So what was it?"

"Traces of a stimulant... Gaius called it a Serum of Predilection.”

“Predilection? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Right,” Elena says, sarcastic, "because you’re such a nerd who knows everything.”

“Oh stuff it, Miss He-Probably-Ate-Something,” Merlin fires in return, not able to contain a smile.

“I hate you,” Elena promises. “Are you going to take this seriously or not?”

Merlin gives up. “Fine, fine, a serum. What does it do? I don't feel any different."

"Now you don’t, sure. Gaius found some information that says it activates on direct contact with skin or as a drink. It doesn’t last forever, of course."

"Well, Arthur and I drank from the same bottle all night. We…” Merlin flushes, remembering how he invaded Arthur’s mouth, chasing the remnants of whisky and the sharp taste of alcohol on Arthur’s hot, slick tongue. “We’ve had plenty of contact; he’d be affected too. Why would he do that?”

 _Christ, maybe he was…_ Merlin’s mood plummets further.

"Maybe he had anti-serum."

"Does Gaius say such a thing exists?"

"Not that he knows of."

"There you go. It wasn't Arthur's doing."

"You're so quick to defend him." Elena scrutinises Merlin with a squint of her bright-blue eyes.

“Because he didn’t pursue me. I did,” Merlin says quietly, although he knows it's not entirely how it all started. But he wants to believe in Arthur so badly, he squashes all doubt.

“He never asked me anything to raise my suspicion. At some point he even tried to leave... before we did anything…” Merlin looks at Elena, biting his lip. “If he meant me harm, why did he stay with me the next day? Why didn't he run?"

“Well, you’re a tough nut to crack. You’re a trained agent -- better than anyone. Maybe he wanted to keep trying to con you,” Elena suggests, being unhelpfully complementary.

Merlin refuses to think that way. “It was genuine. He didn’t touch Triskelion, remember? No one laid a finger on the car while I was gone. No one even tried. What else would he want from me? He doesn't know I'm an agent, it's impossible."

"Yes, that's true. Your identity was concealed, no way to track you down," Elena agrees, frowning in thought.

"Exactly!" Merlin jumps up in relief. "It’s not him, Elena! Now, can we move on and talk about the serum?"

Not losing her doubtful, pondering expression, Elena pulls her mobile device out of her coat, taps on it, and hands it to Merlin. He sits down and reads:

“ **Serum of Predilection** :

Develops a high susceptibility to inner thoughts and hidden feelings. Makes the victim want to act on them, turning the victim unreasonably impulsive and emotional. Drives into action, and doesn't let off until the whichever strong desire is satisfied. Depending on a dose, can last up to 12 hours.

 **Symptoms** :

Sudden overwhelming feeling. Itchiness. Dizziness. Strong impulses, unusual for the victim's character. Lapses in memory once the serum wears off."

 

From everything Merlin remembers (and from the fact there are things he doesn’t), he can’t deny -- it fits. But--

"It says twelve hours..." He re-reads the description. “Up to...” He knows he’s grasping at straws, but he can’t help it.

Elena reads something in his wide eyes. "At the time of the blood test, the serum was almost gone from your system. How long did you and your Arthur spend together?"

"All evening. All night. And then the morning and afternoon of the following day…” Merlin recounts. “Until next early evening."

"The effect of the serum must have been long gone by then... So, since the time you called me from the hotel, what happened between you two?" They make eye contact.

"Well, we..." Merlin doesn’t feel like spilling any intimate details about his time with Arthur, even to Elena. "We spent almost entire day together. And when it was time for both of us to leave, we came to a sort of agreement." He takes a deep breath. "We're going to try it."

"Try what?"

Merlin looks away. "The marriage thing..."

"Wait, you still want to stay married? It’s not the serum talking?"

"I think so?" Merlin answers, feeling extremely sheepish but also like it’s not going to stop him from trying to defy the odds. Arthur wanted to be with him. Beyond the bloody twelve hours. Merlin’s feelings on the subject haven’t changed since, either. So. He juts his chin forward. "What's wrong with that?"

"So many things," Elena says, pushing her unruly hair away from her face. "Starting with the fact that your marriage began with a lie."

“I can fix that,” Merlin says confidently. Somewhat.

“How?”

Merlin glances at the ceiling with a sigh. “Must you ask difficult questions?”

“Must you act like a besotted puppy?”

“I’m not--” Merlin protests.

“Yes, you are,” Elena croons, reaching out to touch Merlin’s cheek. “What am I going to do with you, sweetheart?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says quickly. “I’ll figure it out. It’s between Arthur and me.”

“I think you should tell him.”

“Tell him what? That I’m a secret agent and a sorcerer? And that the most likely the reason we were so into each other was because we were two lonely fucks who couldn’t help themselves due to some magic serum?”

Elena heaves a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe you should call him and tell him it was a mistake and you’ve changed your mind? Cut all contact before you’re in too deep.”

The wave of anguish rolling up Merlin's throat at this suggestion is so violent, he can’t breathe. "I-- No." He clutches at his chest, trying to calm himself down, his magic going mad beneath his skin.

"Merlin, I’m sorry," Elena says, her eyes round with sincerity. “If you can’t do it, I’ll ask my Da to send his lawyer; he’ll just need your Arthur’s full name. Whatever you think is best.”

"No,” Merlin says again, having made up his mind. “I don’t need any meddling in my personal business. Stay away from him, E, I mean it. Whatever we need to work out between us, we’ll work out on our own."

Elena shakes her head. “Disaster, written all over it. But fine, fine.” She picks up her device. “Now, let’s trace your every step in Vegas and see who did this to you and why."

 

~LDN~

 

“Borden?” Gaius looks at a grim Merlin. “ _Borden_ was the one who had you take the serum?”

“He didn’t have me do anything. He _touched_ me, briefly, and it was like a prickle," Merlin explains, again. "And I told him to get the hell away from me."

He’s already gone a round with Elena, and this is getting annoying -- not because he has to repeat himself twice, but because he’s expecting more invasive questions. And Gaius being Gaius -- who’s genuinely interested in everything to do with magic and its behaviour -- he’ll want to know what happened next, and how Merlin felt, and whether he’s done anything different or out of character. Merlin can’t be mean to his mentor, even though his natural propensity to be in Merlin’s business and lecture him all the time tries his patience consistently. 

“Show me where.”

Merlin pushes up the sleeve of his office coat and points at the spot on the inner side of his right wrist. Gaius’s favourite magnifying glass makes an immediate appearance.

“Uh, hm, huh, hm.” Gaius’s pensive noises when he studies something are legendary.

Merlin and Elena glance at each other, and both try to suppress a snicker.

“I see a little bit of an irritation on your skin here, which could be our proof,” Gaius muses, while Merlin waits patiently for him to satisfy his whim. “But I’m not sure if this can be used as direct evidence against Borden.”

“Of course not,” Merlin says darkly. “But I’ll get him, Gaius, I promise. The day will come. Soon.” 

“Do you feel anything?” Gaius fusses over Merlin’s wrist.

Merlin shakes his head. “No. Well, maybe it’s a little sensitive there, but it could be just in my head now. And I did feel a bit dizzy after my contact with Borden, but I blamed the effect of the artifact’s magic for it.”

“Yes, yes. Most fascinating.”

The truth is, everything is fascinating to Gaius, and that child-like, open interest in every thing and every person, the ability to find magic even in simple, trivial things and events -- this is what makes him so loved and cherished at the Agency. He means business when it calls for it, but even after working for the Agency for years and having been a witness to truly callous crimes against magic and people in the magic community, he’s managed to keep his genuine, unwavering belief that by nature, everyone is good and worthy, and it’s circumstances people find themselves in that make them do unthinkable, bad things.

To Gaius, everyone deserves another chance, and to Merlin, Gaius is such a treasure, he’d never want to upset the old man.

“Perfect revenge,” Gaius mutters. He finally lets Merlin’s arm go. “You said he’d hunted for Triskelion for ten years?”

“That’s what he said.”

Gaius nods. “So there’s our answer. You took something from him he was obsessed with, so he made you sick with craving for something of your own."

"But Borden couldn't know Merlin was going to be there. He was going to sell the artifact, so why bring a serum?” Elena asks. “Why not bring a gun if he didn't trust the buyer?"

Gaius's eyes twinkle. "Borden is a clever man. He'd have no chance with a gun against Alvarr's guards, but the serum can make you do and say things you'd normally keep to yourself. It’s commonly mistaken for truth serum, and I suspect that was what Borden thought he had in his possession. Except, truth serum also has a sedative effect. Imagine the leverage Borden could have on Alvarr if he used it.”

Several scenarios run through Merlin's head.

“Borden wouldn’t want to make an enemy,” he says, considering what this information means for the Agency and the mission.

“No,” Gaius agrees. “But he wouldn’t enter into this transaction, whatever the nature of it was, without a plan to protect himself if needed. He came prepared.”

“Obviously,” Elena mutters. “Who’d go into a meeting with a respectable businessman and an executive of a well-known corporation without having witchcraft involved?”

Gaius smiles at her weakly. “Your sarcasm, Elena, doesn’t escape me and so doesn’t the reality of the situation. I’d say Merlin was lucky it turned out the way it did."

“That depends on who you’re asking _,_ ” Elena suggests helpfully, to Merlin’s utter dismay.

Too helpfully, because of course Gaius _asks_ , full of his usual blunt curiosity, "True, true. Tell us, Merlin, what was it that serum made you want?”

Merlin keeps it cool, he totally does, although he's moaning internally.

“Gaius,” he says with the most stoic face. “With all due respect, I hope you understand that what you’re asking is an extremely private matter. I want to assure you that the effects of the serum had nothing to do with the Agency matters or by any means were related to my job.”

“And you didn’t--?” Gaius tries, more subdued, but still insistent.

“Gaius, no,” Merlin protests immediately. “I’ve told you everything relevant you need to know.”

“Fine, fine,” Gaius agrees and stuffs his magnifying glass back into his pocket, finally looking somewhat abashed.

At the same time, Elena makes a small, disapproving sound, which Merlin answers by sending his magic to bump her behind her knees. He watches in satisfaction how she flails, wobbles, and scowls at him, knowing exactly who’s responsible for being so terribly _childish_. Raising his hand, Merlin swipes his thumb across his throat in an unmistakable threatening gesture and quickly shifts to innocently scratch behind his ear as soon as Gaius looks at him.

“I’m sorry, Gaius, I hope you understand,” he adds, nearly sincere.

“Yes, yes, my apologies for making you uncomfortable.”

Elena shoots him a look, full of admonishment, which Merlin adamantly refuses to acknowledge, saying instead, “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t been back in the office for many weeks. I have a lot of catching up to do and a lot of reports to write.”

“Twat,” Elena mutters under her breath on her way out.

“Bint,” Merlin responds in kind.

Elena salutes him with two fingers behind Gaius at the door.

  

 

Merlin receives a text from Arthur two days later, when he’s already falling asleep in front of the telly.

 _\- I’m in London,_ it says, and not a word more.

It’s enough.

For Merlin’s heart to swoop up and down in a hiccup and begin beating very fast after that. And for his bad mood to soar.

For him to understand that Arthur’s careful wording is probably premeditated. He’s probably prepared for the possibility that Merlin won’t even respond.

Merlin doesn’t want to keep him in suspense for too long.

 _\- Welcome home,_ he replies, his magic shutting the telly off.

 _\- Thank you. Just landed,_ the next message from Arthur says.

Merlin smiles at the screen, surprised, pleased.

 _\- Are you in Heathrow? Want me to pick you up?_ he asks.

 _\- Thank you,_ _Merlin_ , Arthur answers, _but I think it’d be faster if I grab a cab._

 _\- Faster?_ Merlin types back.

Ohhhh, _faster_! He jumps up from the couch and looks at the clock, and then around his messy flat, sending magic to sweep things around and knowing that he might never see some of them ever again.

_\- I’d invite you over to mine, but I’ve got nothing to eat. I haven’t been home in over three weeks._

_\- So you’re just coming for food?_ Merlin teases.

His mobile starts ringing; Merlin presses “talk”.

“Just give me your damn address, you horrible tease,” Arthur grumbles, voice already familiar to Merlin’s ear, like he’s known it his entire life and maybe beyond.

“Yes, all right, texting.”

“Do you have any idea…” Arthur starts and doesn’t finish, the air going silent for a muted moment that drives Merlin absolutely mad.

“What?” Merlin asks, instantly breathless. “Arthur?”

Arthur’s voice comes back. “...what I’m going to do to you when I see you." It's muffled and so much closer, Merlin imagines his mouth, wet from licking his lips and covered by his hand so no one else can hear him.

He groans. “Hurry. Tell the cabbie I’ll pay extra.”

“I‘ve already bribed him. _Fuck_ , Merlin. How long?”

“Twenty minutes,” Merlin promises quickly, already impatient and disoriented by both how much he wants Arthur this very instant and how much he’s missed him. “And then you will _fuck_ me. I’ve plenty of lube for us to stay in bed for at least a week,” he wishes out loud, losing any brain-mouth filter and not giving a fuck.

Arthur swears. “Do you want me to come in my pants?”

Merlin chuckles. “Better hold off, dear. I have better plans.”

“Did you just call me ‘dear’?” Arthur asks.

“Yes. Problem?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Arthur laughs, then turns serious, voice gruff. “You will take everything I’ll give you, Merlin. I’ve been planning things too.”

"God, Arthur." Merlin sinks back on his couch, roughly palming himself.

"Don't you dare start touching yourself."

"Fuck," Merlin swears. "I need to... Let me just... I'll just open myself for you--"

"No, I'll do it. And then I'll plug you so tight--"

"Oh fucking..." Merlin’s going cross-eyed and so is his magic. “Your cabbie is probably having a seizure."

"I don't care," Arthur responds. "I've had the longest three days of my life."

“Three and a half,” Merlin blurts out.

“Missed me, did you?”

“I’m getting the lube out,” Merlin warns and pops the cap of the bottle with a loud click next to his mobile.

Arthur growls another jumbled-up command to the cabbie and then says to Merlin, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper, “This is not going to be gentle, Merlin.”

“I don’t want it to be.”

“Then I'll see you in ten.”

 

~LDN~

 

Merlin opens the door before Arthur has a chance to knock on it. In the light-blue jeans and red polo shirt, blond fringe over his intense eyes, Arthur looks taller than Merlin remembers. Maybe it’s because they spent most of the time either sitting or lying down or towering over each other. And there was that time when Arthur pressed into Merlin facing them against the wall. He couldn’t have measured Arthur at that moment, could he, he had other things in mind. These things come flooding into his brain again as he sweeps his gaze over Arthur from head to toe, taking him in: his tousled blond hair that seems even lighter under the bright hallway lamp, his skin even tanner, golden. Did he just arrive from some tropical country? He said he was a financial analyst or something… What is it exactly that financial analysts do?

Merlin isn’t able to explore the thought further as Arthur grumbles, trying to catch his breath, “Your lift is broken. You live on the bloody fifth floor.”

“Next time, I’ll send my neighbour Mrs Finna to give you a piggyback upstairs,” Merlin offers, opening the door wider.

Arthur steps into the flat, flashing him a bright, dangerous smile -- a weapon Merlin has no defenses against, he now remembers. Arthur’s Patek watch is gleaming on his wrist -- solid and sexy, just like Arthur himself -- as he brushes the hair away from his eyes, and Merlin imagines him in nothing but this watch, that hand on Merlin’s hard cock, and he realises breathlessly that it’s possible. It doesn’t have to be just a fantasy in his head.

“Do you always exploit your neighbours, Merlin?” Arthur asks, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

“You haven’t met Mrs Finna. You might’ve thanked me later. She’s a sexual deviant and very kinky,” Merlin says, and adds quickly, “I’ve been told.”

“So, are you saying,” Arthur kicks the entrance door behind him closed, “I’ve come to the wrong address?” He stalks towards Merlin.

“No, no,” Merlin assures him, like the gracious host he recalls he must be. His stumbling step back isn’t so gracious, thanks to his suddenly weak knees. “You’re very welcome here.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, crowding him close. “Otherwise, it’d be very awkward if I did _this_ to you--” He yanks Merlin to his chest, one arm snaking around his waist, the other over his shoulder, hand twisting into Merlin’s hair at the back of his head.

“Are you still saying yes?” Arthur asks, catching Merlin’s eyes. The question is heavily layered with several meanings, and Merlin gets every single one.

“Yes, Arth--” He doesn’t get to finish, propelled into the closest wall and pinned with the hottest, neediest kiss.

“God, Merlin, your mouth,” Arthur gasps, breaking apart. “The things I’ve imagined.”

He kisses Merlin again, almost biting. Merlin gives it back, sucking Arthur’s lower lip in roughly until Arthur starts grinding against him, and it feels so good, the solid, reassuring weight of him pressing in all the right spots and even the scrape of his stubble against his chin.

Merlin can’t tell how they make it to the couch in the living room, Arthur draping Merlin over the closest plush arm and impatiently pushing Merlin’s jeans down his thighs.

“I see lube,” Arthur grunts, and Merlin gets the hint and grabs the bottle rolled between the cushions. “Let me.”

Merlin hands it to him. “Condom?”

“Have it covered,” Arthur answers, flipping the cap.

“You bagged it already?” Merlin can’t help quipping, eyeing the still fully clothed Arthur. “Show me.”

“You cheeky bugger,” Arthur huffs and slaps Merlin’s bum, then kneads it. “Oh, you _are_ cheeky, god, I almost forgot,” he says in a different tone, breathy, and after a quick, squelchy moment, rubs cold, slick fingers between Merlin’s cheeks.

“Let me help you remember.” Merlin reaches for Arthur’s hand and guides it where he’s been wanting him for what feels like eternity.

“Fuck, you waited,” Arthur says, wonder and awe in his voice, dragging one lubed finger against Merlin’s dry hole, and pushes it in. “Fuck, Merlin. You--”

“More,” Merlin demands. “Don’t stop there. Now, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t have to be told twice. Shoving Merlin face down into the cushions, he makes quick work of thrusting and scissoring two fingers inside Merlin, ripping a guttural moan from him.

Arthur pushes a third finger in, deep and curling, and twists his hand in a clever way that has Merlin jerking in pleasure. “That’s it, Merlin, this is what I wanted to see. You writhing on my fingers,” Arthur whispers, leaning over Merlin’s shaking form, kissing his shoulder, his neck, the gentleness of it a devastating contrast with how he keeps fucking Merlin’s hole. He murmurs something Merlin’s sure is some form of endearment; he means to remember to ask Arthur about it later, maybe even tease him a little, but then Arthur scrapes his teeth over Merlin’s shoulder, yanking him into the present, and asks, “More?”

It’s almost too much, and Merlin needs a moment, just long enough to find his voice and brain again. He turns his sweaty face towards Arthur. “You. Now,” he croaks a demand.

“Yes,” Arthur says simply and starts unbuttoning his own jeans with one hand.

Merlin waits as long as he can bear it, which is not long, and tries to help Arthur by grabbing and pulling at the fabric, but only slows them down. His bloody magic is too damn eager, and not at all helpful, only making Merlin’s hand shake more. And what the hell is that, even? Isn’t his magic supposed to be on Merlin’s side?

When Arthur finally enters Merlin, it isn’t gentle, just like Arthur promised, and Merlin keens, sobbing into his hands on the cushions -- he needs this so much. Arthur's thrusting into him like it's the end of the world and this is the last time he'll ever have Merlin. "No," Merlin gasps, "Arthur, more."

Arthur bottoms out once again, delivering another rough thrust of his hips into him, and pulls Merlin up by his shoulder, manhandling him into a somewhat upright position.

“Do you want to come?” Arthur asks against his neck, mouth hot on his skin.

“Yes, Arthur, please. I want it…” he swears. “But I want it together.”

“No. You first.”

Merlin tries to protest, moaning something, a word even he can’t understand, a half-spell.

“I want to feel you coming around me, baby," Arthur murmurs and starts stripping Merlin's cock. It takes a few more thrusts, a flick of Arthur's thumb, and a harsh tug for Merlin to have the most brilliant, most intense -- a fine line between pain and pleasure -- _the_ best orgasm of his life.

Arthur follows him a few moments later with a, “Yes. Fuck. Finally,” and a long, satisfied groan.

 

~LDN~

 

If Arthur hopes that Merlin’s kitchen holds some special secret to marital bliss, he’s sorely mistaken.

“I live on takeaways, sorry,” Merlin says after Arthur closes the refrigerator door with an appalled expression.

“I mean, it’s _empty_ ,” Arthur shares his observation, clearly stumped. “Why do you even keep it turned on?”

Merlin shrugs. “Pretenses? Also, it stinks if I shut the power off. Even if empty.”

“I have a feeling you’ve experimented with that theory.”

Merlin nods. “Proven. No longer a theory.”

“Jesus.” Arthur rubs his belly, his eyes roaming around, not catching at anything specific. Because there’s really nothing here to pry into.

And then, there is.

Arthur pins his gaze at the refrigerator's door. “Aww, you didn’t frame it?”

Merlin watches him pull their wedding picture from under the magnet and study it like an old friend, smiling.

“I can,” Merlin says. “If you buy one.”

“And if I do...” Arthur turns to Merlin, and there’s a strange look on his face. “Will you keep it by your bed?”

This meant to be light-hearted -- Merlin can tell the intention behind Arthur’s deliberately teasing tone. If only he wasn’t cradling their picture a little too carefully between his fingers and a little too close to his chest.

 _Our bed,_ Merlin wants to correct him. “Most likely in my wallet,” he says instead, which by itself is a big enough confession. “So, save your money.”

Arthur nods, reluctantly putting the picture back where it was. “How much do you travel?”

Merlin thinks for a moment. “It depends. A lot lately. Too much.” And then adds, feeling like sharing, “And there's this person… A competitor. Who makes my life a real bloody hell.”

“Ah, yes.” Arthur nods slowly, making a face. “I know the feeling.” He darts his eyes to Merlin. “What do you do? You never said.”

Merlin recalls a particular section from his new file, inwardly cringing. “IT security. Firewall protection. System-hacking and white-collar crimes prevention.”

Arthur smiles. “Sound fascinating and useful.”

“It can be.” Merlin smiles in return. “Especially when you’re the one whose financial system has just been compromised by a fifteen-year-old script kiddie…" Merlin laughs at the sight of Arthur’s mouth in a bewildered “O”. "You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” 

Arthur catches himself. “My organisation is well-protected. It’s impossible to penetrate.”

Merlin snorts. “Yes, I’m sure. Especially judging by your outdated mobile device _._ ”

“So, you’re a technology snob.” Arthur doesn’t sound resentful, if that’s what he’s going for -- more like amused.

“And you live in medieval times,” Merlin quips. He slaps his hands on his knees and gets up from his chair. “Don’t you worry, now you have me.”

Arthur huffs a small, fond laugh. “Aren’t I lucky?”

“You most certainly are,” Merlin declares, walking to Arthur and planting a kiss on his mouth.

Arthur grabs Merlin’s arm to hold him in place when he tries to move away. “I’m glad you were home,” he whispers and catches Merlin’s bottom lip again.

 

 ~LDN~

 

Merlin decides that kissing Arthur is the best thing since sliced bread. But then there are such things as jet lag and the need of a shower. Catching a whiff of Arthur’s shirt up-close and post shag-fever, he definitely thinks Arthur could use one of those. And suggests so loudly. Arthur sniffs his armpit and agrees without a hint of offence. That’s how Merlin knows he’s found his true match. Which, of course, warrants another snog.

“Arthur,” he asks when they finally break apart and he successfully uncrosses his eyes. He’s just realised something. “Where’s your luggage?”

Arthur chases after Merlin’s mouth, frowning when he starts leaning away. Now that Merlin’s brain isn’t addled exclusively by the thoughts of fornication, he can tell Arthur looks worse for the wear, with shadows under his eyes, corners drooping a little, and his lips chapped. But he’s warm and relaxed, and still completely gorgeous, and more importantly -- he’s here and he’s _Merlin’s._ No doubt about it.

“I left it unclaimed.” Arthur looks away, eyebrows knitting together in a thought, and then back at Merlin, smiling shyly. “Everything I need is here.”

Humming, Merlin brushes his fingers across Arthur’s jaw, golden with stubble, which he considers licking… God, he’s an insatiable sod. But after hearing Arthur’s quiet admission, he knows it’s not just lust. He knows he can’t deny it any longer and that Elena was totally right -- he is hopelessly besotted.

“I’ll get you something fresh to change into. Loo is the door down the hall,” he suggests, trying not to make cow eyes at his (god, it’s really real!) partner.

“And order us some takeaway, would you?” Arthur raises his eyebrow. “I’m sending you to a cooking class, by the way, so I can count on a warm meal after a long day.”

Merlin pictures that disaster and laughs. “Can _you_ cook?”

Arthur puffs out his chest. “I most certainly can.”

“Then why would I need classes? Looks like we already have a cook in the family. I'd even buy you one of those aprons with six-pack painted on them. I can already imagine you here by the stove in absolutely nothing else but that apron.”

Arthur sputters a response that doesn’t come, which makes Merlin laugh harder.

“God, you’re so easy.”

“I stepped right into that one, didn’t I?” Arthur says, his eyes tender, indulgent. “Are you always going to keep me on my toes?”

“Yep. Or you’d be bored.”

Arthur doesn’t say it, but the soft press of his mouth to Merlin's cheek does -- and the slap on his arse that follows.

They’ll be far from bored _._ They might even be _happy._

 

 ~LDN~

Merlin wakes up with a jolt, disturbed by a sound he immediately recognises as the click of his front door. He’s up in an instant, looking around. Their bed (theirs! How fast did that happen!) is empty, but is still holding the lingering warmth from Arthur’s body at Merlin’s touch. The old t-shirt Arthur had borrowed for the night is folded on the dresser with military precision. Arthur’s clothes are gone.

“Arthur?” Merlin calls. No one answers. 

Merlin checks the clock on the nightstand: it’s bloody four-thirty. In the bloody morning. And apparently Arthur’s a coward. There’s no note of explanation, no text, no kiss goodbye. The flat is empty, and Merlin is back to being here alone.

Merlin considers calling and asking, “What the bloody fuck?” and changes his mind. His helpful brain’s already calculated all possible options, and all of them are in favour of his utter humiliation. The best of them has a 94% guarantee of that outcome. He may be clingy and helplessly in love, but he is not spineless.

 _At least the sex was stellar, no regrets there,_ he thinks. His body still remembers how only a few hours earlier, he'd eagerly taken Arthur's cock again. How deliciously stretched he felt, Arthur's hands holding him steady in place, his magic singing. Literally singing -- Merlin had nearly lost his voice, spurred by the magic to shamelessly vocalise his pleasure while being encouraged by Arthur's approving murmurs.

Merlin checks himself in the hallway mirror, and there it is once again -- the gleam of golden circles framing his irises, giving him away. He blinks it off with magic.

“Fuck, Merlin,” he tells himself in a thick voice. “You foolish, _bleedin’_ fuck…” He closes his eyes. “Just so you know, I blame you,” he tells his magic out loud, because there’s no one else to talk to and Arthur isn’t here for him to punch.

After roaming around the flat for some time, he goes back to bed and tries to fall asleep again. The shadows scratch at the ceiling and at the recesses of his mind, bringing back the images that are too raw and too fresh to be able to easily let go, but he’s planning to. Soon. Eventually.

It’s five o’clock in the morning. So, technically, morning it is. Evening in some places, like Las Vegas -- all the way across the pond, and already surreal -- he’ll probably end up hating the sheer mentioning of that city.

The sleep thing isn't happening. With a sigh, he rolls out of bed, dresses, and goes into the living room, turning on a soft light. After unrolling the yoga mat on the floor, he connects his mobile to the dock, finds the app, and sits down with his legs crossed. When the hologram of an instructor starts beaming in the air and the melodic, soothing voice tells him to relax and empty his mind, he takes a deep breath through his nose and does.

Approximately fifty minutes later (forty-nine, if Merlin wants to be precise) and at the point where he’s already sweated out at least three buckets and is finishing his routine by twisting himself into a spine-stretching pose, he hears the keys scratch the lock.

“Bendy,” a voice says cheerfully. “So that’s where your stamina and flexibility are coming from. I should join you next time.” Arthur steps into Merlin’s view and points at the hologram. “This is very cool.”

His hair is windswept and damp, full pink colour painting his cheeks. His open smile is pretty... damn him. He’s no longer in jeans or his red polo, changed into khakis and a dark-blue t-shirt. The colour suits him.

“I borrowed your keys,” he says conversationally, like it's nothing major. “They called me from my place because my bag had been delivered to my home address from the airport. I’m still jet-lagged, so I figured, since I can’t sleep, I’ll quickly go change and grab a few things. You were dead to the world and I tried to be quiet,” he keeps on, sounding more and more apologetic. “I didn't think you'd appreciate being disturbed.”

“I’m used to being disturbed at all hours, Arthur,” Merlin says once he’s done with his final breathing exercise (especially useful right now) and bows to the flickering image of his instructor wishing him a splendid day. “By the way, I wrote this program, and I’ve perfected poses that are illegal in some countries,” he suggests ominously. "Guess why."

“I volunteer!” Arthur raises three fingers, and walks up closer. “I'll be your sparring dummy! You can totally use me to practice your deadly illegal moves. And I swear not to alert the authorities.”

“I’m not afraid of any authorities,” Merlin grumbles, rolling his eyes. He rises from his cross-legged sitting position smoothly without using his hands, which is not a show-off on his part at all.

Arthur watches him with rapt, appreciative eyes while Merlin pretends to ignore a flutter in his belly. “That’s understandable. I'm sure you'd take them apart with one blow.”

“You have no idea,” Merlin says, fighting a smile, and turns away to roll his yoga mat.

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Arthur asks quietly. "I should've woken you up and told you I was going to be out."

"It doesn't matter," Merlin lies.

"It does to me." Arthur walks up to him and touches his shoulder. "I want it to matter. I'm too used to being on my own, Merlin, and my work schedule is completely mad, so there will be times when I’ll have to go in unexpectedly, but I promise from now on to leave you a note. It’d be nice if you’d do the same.”

Merlin shrugs a shoulder, picking up his bottle of water from the floor. “Fine.”

“Now, you might be happy to hear,” Arthur changes his tone to more playful, shaking a plastic bag in his hand, “that I bought us some scones, tea, milk, and sugar, and a few other things on my way back. We really need to stock up the kitchen properly."

Merlin turns around. "Stock up the kitchen?" he asks, his voice embarrassingly slipping into a falsetto. “We?”

Arthur puts down the bag, laughing softly, and takes Merlin's face between his warm hands. "What did I tell you, Merlin? I’m a real catch. And I’m not going anywhere, I promise." He nips at the tip of his nose. "If I did, you’d starve to death.”

For a brief moment, Merlin considers making an argument that he’s been perfectly fine so far, thank you very much. But then Arthur gives him the most salacious, filthy smile, asking, "Shower?" and Merlin decides that some arguments should be left unchallenged. He starts undressing -- maybe even a little too fast. 

 

 

“I need information,” Merlin emails Gwaine. He writes down two pages worth of questions, listing names, locations, and dates he wants details on. Merlin has a lot of work to do, and he learned a long time ago that delegation is the key.

Morgana kept her word and assigned him the Triskelion project. That didn’t exempt him from all the errands Gaius keeps piling on him as if Merlin’s still a junior agent who doesn’t have better things to do. And there are also other agents who never stop coming to him for his expertise and advice. He’s a Wizard, after all, and people respect him.

However, there are _people_ , and there is Gwaine.

Three hours after Merlin's initial request, that lazy tosser hits him with a reply: 

_U didnt say pls._

Merlin counts to ten.

It helps him somewhat, but when it comes to his obnoxious friend and teammate without a mouth-filter, patience can truly be a virtue sometimes. Merlin forgoes the option of launching into an email-sparring session, because god knows, he’s done it enough times to learn his lesson. Gwaine is a gifted bullshitter and can dodge him for days.

Merlin takes a lift two storeys down to Gwaine's workspace -- a room with no windows and not big enough to swing a cat, but he chose it himself and proudly calls it his “brain domain”. Which, judging by its size, is hardly something to brag about.

Gwaine is not there when he reaches it, but he hears familiar voices and _giggling_ across the hall.

“Oh, but of course,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, and walks to where the sounds are coming from, catching Gwaine leaning into Elena while sitting on top of her desk. They both snap their heads in his direction, turning away from Elena’s mobile, and she shoves it into the pocket of her office coat. They look like they’ve just spent an hour messing with each other’s hair, which they probably were, for reasons Merlin doesn’t want to think about.

“Well, hello there, pretty daisy,” Gwaine greets him, not bothering to get off the desk. “Aren't you glowing? Must be all the shagging you’ve been doing in the last two months. By the way, when are we going to meet your precious Arthur? You should stop hiding him from us."

Merlin glares at him murderously, which doesn’t seem to have the desired effect.

“I’m not hiding anyone. We’ve both been busy,” he says, keeping his tone even.

“Doing what?” Gwaine teases. “Defiling every available surface in your flats?”

“Oh Gwaine, don’t be so mean,” Elena says sweetly, poking his bicep. “It’s called ‘getting to know each other’. How else is Merlin going to learn more about his _spouse_?”

“Oh yes.” Gwaine nods, assuming a serious face. “I forgot how it works -- first you marry, _then_ you ask for their name. Right, mate?”

Merlin feels his cheeks heating up. “Insubordinate wankers,” he mutters. “I swear, one day I’ll turn you both into donkeys. You can bray all you want then.”

Elena and Gwaine look at each other, their eyes going wide, and they both burst into laughter.

“What the hell?” Merlin looks at them, suspecting they’ve gone round the bend. “What’s wrong with you?”

Elena waves at him. “Never mind us, sorry.”

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Merlin asks, unable to suppress a smile at the sight of these two guffawing idiots. “What are you laughing about?” Asking about the report is obviously useless at this point.

“El is the biggest romantic. She loves Craigslist’s Missed Connections posts,” Gwaine says, looking at her with an expression Merlin has never seen on his face before.

 _This is serious,_ he thinks. _He’s serious about her. Like me and Arthur._ He catches himself sighing. Another second, and he’d start swooning. He can’t swoon. Merlin isn’t the swooning type. Or has never been, until he met Arthur. And things have been good between them, so good. Gwaine was right, they’ve spent the past two months -- very intense and entirely brilliant months, despite multiple interruptions for their work-related travel and long office hours -- focussed on building something together, marriage licence or not, which Merlin cares for so much, he's afraid to jinx it.

“And?” he asks.

“And,” Gwaine says. “She found a funny Missed Connection one, involving two complete strangers, blokes dressed as a donkey and a chicken, who after a glorious snog in the loo of a convention centre lost touch... You really don’t want to know; trust me.”

Elena giggles gain. “Oh Gwaine, it was totally cute. By the way, M, there’s something I found this morning that I meant to show you. I swear I don’t spend my days uselessly scrolling the Net.”

Merlin knows that Elena checks hundreds and hundreds of posts and ads everywhere daily. She has feeds set up for information on upcoming museums exhibits, art shows, auctions all over the world -- for any and all sources that may mention possible sightings of magic artifacts and relics. And it’s not a secret that online boards like Craigslist have became the places for the black market to offer paid sorcery services like witchcraft, enchantments, and potions.

Elena takes her mobile out of the pocket, taps on the screen a few times and hands the device to Merlin again. “This one, M. What do you think?”

The ad says: “Looking for a sword (London).

"Something long and sturdy, and of distinct craftsmanship features. Must be able to cleave a horse in half with no more than two blows. This requirement is extremely important. I can't spare any personal details, but I will tell you that I can travel thru time and it's imperative for me to be armed with the time-appropriate weaponry where I'm going. Please do not offer guns. Only fine swords, preferably of medieval period. Think Romans and Arthurian era. I'm not a wizard, but wouldn't you want King Arthur saved? I might have that chance. If all goes as planned, the present will be different, and we'll all have Great Britain ruling the world with the help of dragons, You're welcome in advance.

To prove I'm serious, I'm willing to do an exchange and offer a valuable relic from my personal collection."

To anyone else it would look like the poster is just another bloke who’s off his rocker. To Merlin it screams, “I have a rare artifact.”

“Have you contacted the person?”

Elena nods. “Responded to the ad as soon as I saw it. Haven’t heard back yet.”

“Shite.” Merlin cards his hand through his hair and checks the ad again. “It was posted yesterday. Could already be too late.”

“All right, class,” Gwaine says, reminding them he’s still there. “Looks like my break is over and I better return to my domain. You two don’t work too hard.”

“And you,” Merlin remembers his original reason for coming here, “better have my report by the end of the day.”

“Whaaa?” Gwaine starts whining.

Merlin cuts him off. “I am so not joking.”

Gwaine looks at Elena for support, who shrugs and says, her smile full of mirth, “You know, darlin’, technically, Merlin is our superior. Although I personally don’t fancy his style, we have to listen to him and sometimes follow his orders.”

“That’s right,” Merlin says. “Now is that time. Or, you know, _always_.”

Gwaine nods, making a sad face, and looks at Elena.

“Donkeys,” Merlin reminds them emphatically when they start making googly eyes at each other again. “I’ll do it, and without regret.”

Gwaine salutes him, smirking. “Fine, fine, I’m going. Good day to you, Mr Smith.”

 

~LDN~

 

Before his Chelsea flat, Merlin had never had a place just by himself. Growing up, he and his mum lived in a small house in Ealdor. When he moved to London for uni, he shared his halls with different people, just like everyone else. During his last year, he was assigned a room with Gwaine. Despite Gwaine being obnoxious, loud, and having no sense of personal space, living with him was easy for a simple reason -- he was almost never there. That, and the fact that he discovered Merlin’s magic during that time, but never made a fuss. Of course, it didn’t mean that he didn’t have ideas how best to use it. Gwaine had _many_ ideas, mostly involving sexual favours, which drove Merlin insane.

Still, Gwaine was loyal and his best friend since Gili, whom Merlin rarely saw anymore. Maybe that was why it was a no-brainer for them to look for flats together after uni. Merlin was recruited by the Agency right before graduation, noticed for his magic and innovative mind. Gwaine joined two years later, when Merlin was offered the opportunity to form his own team. Gwaine had no magic, but he was sharp, and had a photographic memory and quick reflexes, all of which made him an excellent mission partner.

Elena joined the team six months later, after she’d basically worn Merlin down by trailing him around the Agency like a puppy, so Merlin took pity on her. That’s his story and he’s sticking to it, but the truth is he saw potential (and so much goodness) in her, even if Elena’s magic did the most ridiculous things, like undoing Gwaine’s buttons -- all of them at once -- as soon as he was in her presence, or sporadically setting her own shoelaces on fire. There was also an unfortunate incident with pixie dust that turned both Merlin and Gwaine blue for a week. It’s not something they like to mention often, but it instantly made Elena Agency-famous, and that was how she’d earned the name “Agent Pixie”. And she was enormously proud of its origins.

The three of them became inseparable over the years. Even when Merlin was going on  missions alone, they were still together, working, both Gwaine and Elena always in his ear, quite literally, providing instant information and support, arguing and egging each other on. And when a mission was over, Merlin was coming home to the same old faces, Elena usually waiting for Merlin in their flat with Gwaine. It sort of became a tradition.

Sometimes (very often), Merlin felt like he never had a moment alone. So, two years ago, when Gaius mentioned to Merlin that his old friend Alice was selling her flat to move in with her daughter, Merlin suddenly thought, “Why not?”

When he went to see it, he instantly loved it. For its quiet location, for the tiny balcony, outer walls covered with ivy, and for the garden view. For the wide windowsills that, no matter the time of the year, for some reason were always warm. The lift was often broken, and Merlin knew how to fix it with magic when it happened, but that was the thing: he was never home anymore.

Somewhere along the way, even the cozy flat and the inviting warm spot by the bedroom window stopped giving him that pleasant, fuzzy feeling he used to get there after a long day (week, two, a month) away. It was no longer enough. And the only solution he could think of was more work and more travel. That was his life, and then, Arthur came along…

 

“How is your mum?” Arthur asks.

“She’s good, thank you for asking.”

They’re both glancing at the picture of smiling Hunith with a teenaged version of Merlin, sitting next to the books on the shelf. Arthur already knows that Merlin has mentioned being in a new relationship to her without him disclosing their official status -- just that they’re an item. Merlin wants his mum, who sounded so happy for him, to meet Arthur someday soon and to tell her the truth. He wishes it were simple.

It doesn’t look like it’s any better in Arthur’s situation. All Merlin knows is that he has a father and a sister, and they have a very tenuous relationship. Arthur doesn’t like to talk about them and Merlin doesn’t push, remembering Arthur’s confession from earlier that his coming out was rather painful.

This picture with his mum is the only personal photo Merlin has up in his flat, and even that is recent. He can’t afford to hold on to keepsakes. No matter the amount of nostalgia, the danger of exposing the people he loves is just too high.

If Arthur has noticed the lack of this personal touch, he’s never mentioned it, quite possibly because Arthur’s place is even more detached. Merlin suspects it was rented already furnished, including the large black-and-white pictures of seasons and waterfalls on the walls that have no reflection on who Arthur is as a person.

It doesn’t stop Merlin from dreaming of them having a place together some day. Those dreams are normally interrupted by Elena’s voice drilling in his head, reminding him that, “--M, you can never tell anyone who you are, ever. About your agency work or your magic. It’s simply not something that can be made public. Not just for the Agency’s, but also for your own sake.”

Yes, Merlin knows. He bloody knows.

It’s like telling someone that Hogwarts is real and the British Ministry of Magic is in the building right across the street. At best, he’d be considered bonkers; at worst, he’d have a bounty set on his head and would have to hide forever. And another, even more terrible outcome -- Arthur would leave him because Merlin’s a freak and a monster, and Merlin can’t even begin to imagine how he’d handle that.

 _Like a professional. And a top-ranked agent,_ Elena would argue, pursing her lips, and then remind him again that Gaius and Morgana still didn’t know about his Vegas stunt.

 _I know, I know,_ Merlin would mutter, averting his eyes.

Two months of those conversations, and Merlin’s still nowhere close to facing the reality of the situation, or at a place where he’s ready to admit that this important, fantastic thing he has with Arthur will never work.

After Arthur, he’s doomed to be alone.

 _Just please not today or tomorrow_.

“Tomorrow we’re having dinner with Leon,” Merlin tells her.

“Who’s Leon?” Gwaine demands, very obviously trying not to sound jealous.

“Arthur’s best friend. We’ve already gone out once before. The three of us went to see a film together, and then to the pub, nothing big,” Merlin explains, wondering why does it feel like he’s living a double-double life? “He… they grew up together. He’s great.”

“What’s so great about him?” Gwaine drills.

“Well, he’s a great friend to Arthur. They both love running and footie, so he and Arthur help out at a youth club with local kids. Arthur’s actually a sponsor,” Merlin says proudly. “And when Arthur can’t make it, Leon takes over, and vice versa. Occasionally, he gives Arthur rides from the airport or to the office, even though he lives in a different part of the city. Because, you know, they're best mates...” Merlin trails off.

“That reminds me of someone I know,” Gwaine comments. “Also a great driver and provides invaluable services to the community. If I were Arthur, I’d be showing Leon a lot of appreciation. I’d be buying him beer and sending him on luxury cruises. Like he obviously deserves.” He stares at Merlin, waiting for the reaction.

“ _Leon_ obviously does,” Merlin agrees emphatically and begins to list, “Let me tell you why: he’s _polite_ , mostly _quiet_. He doesn’t talk smack about his superiors, or make obnoxious demands, unlike someone _I_ know.”

“Pffffft,” is Gwaine’s obnoxious response to the list.

“And I very much doubt,” Merlin adds, since Gwaine started it, so he’d asked for it, “that he’d ever ask Arthur to magic a five-speed _butt plug_ as a graduation present for him.”

“Wait a minute,” Elena says, “I’m confused, are we still talking about Leon?”

Merlin arches his eyebrow at Gwaine.

“Yep, good old Leon,” Gwaine answers, flashing him a finger under the table. “A brilliant chap, sounds like. I should invite him to write for my blog -- what do you think, El? He’s obviously into community support and diversification. We could use some new blood. Oh wait, there’s one problem: _we have never met_.” Gwaine leans onto his elbows to give Merlin the most judging look. 

Merlin sighs. “Guys, it wasn’t anything special, all right? Really. We met by the theatre, where Arthur introduced us. Leon was pleasant, no creepy staring-me-downs, and he didn’t try to pull me into the corner and threaten my life if I hurt his best friend -- or pin me down as a secret agent. It was all very normal; we shared a bucket of popcorn, and after the film, Leon offered to go to the pub.”

What Merlin doesn’t say is that he saw them talking rather animatedly when he was coming back from the loo of the pub, and Arthur hadn’t looked pleased. It took everything in him not to use magic so he could spy on that conversation; he’d be feeling like bollocks if he had. They could’ve been talking about anything, and not necessarily about him, which reminded Merlin how little he still knew about Arthur and his life and how much he wanted to learn.

“So, I’m not sure of the official verdict,” Merlin finishes his story with another sigh. “But I actually thought Leon liked me. I mean, we’re meeting again, so that must be a good sign.”

“Oh yes, it must be,” Gwaine mocks, and with the most insincere , “Well, good luck with forging your new relationships," he turns back to his laptop.

Merlin doesn’t know what to say.

“Merlin,” Elena says carefully. “Are we ever going to meet him? We know you asked us not to dig around. You wanted to deal with this on your own at the beginning, and we’ve respected your wishes, but it looks like you’re becoming more and more invested, and--”

Gwaine interrupts her. “El, leave it alone.”

Merlin closes his eyes.

“Fine. You’re right. There’s no reason for Arthur not to meet you. I trust him… I do,” he insists when Elena raises her brow and Gwaine snorts. “And I trust you to act like you actually _like me_ when you meet him,” he says. “And not like this is some sort of a test.”

“Oh, but it will be,” Gwaine says, turning back to him, a predatory smile appearing slowly on his face.

“See, that’s exactly why I can’t introduce you to civilised people,” Merlin complains. “Why can’t you be like Leon? You’ll ruin everything.”

Elena sighs. “Oh M, I’m afraid you’ve got it all backwards.”

Merlin scowls, refusing to acknowledge that he understands what she means.

“So,” he says tentatively after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “How about this Saturday at seven? Arthur should be around.”

“We’ll be there,” Elena agrees without looking at Gwaine.

“We’ll bring tequila,” Gwaine offers out of the blue. “I have almost a full bottle stashed somewhere at home.”

Merlin still remembers the shitty taste from the last time he drank it and grimaces. “Please don’t.”

Elena snorts. “I don’t think you have a say, sweetheart. If you’re this serious about this bloke, then we’ll be too.”

“You’re going to try to drink him under the table and see if you can fish something out of him?” Merlin asks, incredulous. “That’s your plan?”

“We plan to bring tequila and see where it takes us from there,” Gwaine insists, giving Merlin a challenging look.

“Fine. Whatever,” Merlin grumbles, ready to leave.

Elena stops him with a soft, “Merlin.”

He looks up at her.

“Please remember, when it goes bollocks-up and you need us, we’ll be there. No questions asked.”

Merlin swallows, thinking, _When, not if._

“Ditto,” he says, with an edge of implication in his voice, a hint of revenge, which he’s not proud of. But let’s face it, he’s not the only one in this room whose heart is on the line.

Gwaine and Elena look at each other and drop their eyes. 

 

 

Elena calls Merlin in the middle of his dinner with Arthur, voice ringing with excitement. “M, the bloke just responded!”

Merlin glances at Arthur, who’s checking his mobile with a strange expression on his face. He looks like he’s just won the lottery but doesn’t believe his luck, his eyebrows unusually high on his forehead.

“Who?” Merlin asks Elena.

“The Craigslist bloke.”

“He did?” Merlin exclaims and immediately lowers his voice. “What did he say?” He mouths to Arthur, _Sorry. One minute._

Arthur doesn’t seem upset by the interruption at all, typing something furiously, barely acknowledging Merlin with a nod. 

Merlin twists to face away from him and returns to the call. “Does he still want it?” It’s been two days since Elena emailed the guy who was looking for a sword, and they almost gave up on hearing back from him.

“Hmmm, he says he’s had a few offers, but nothing serious enough. He's asking to meet in an hour at the pub called Swan, at Bankside. Can you make it?”

Arthur pushes his plate away and rises to his feet. Merlin looks at him in surprise.

“Merlin, I’m sorry.” His words are soft but rushed. “I have to leave for a bit. Client just called.”

Merlin wants to protest, since they’ve barely touched the dinner Arthur spent an hour cooking, but then remembers he has no right to complain. He glances at the clock and nods.

“I won’t be long, I promise,” Arthur adds and leans to kiss his temple. “Is this Elena on the phone? Please tell her hello for me.”

“Yes, hello,” Merlin parrots, just then realising Elena’s excited voice must have carried through. “She’s asking about tomorrow’s dinner,” he comes up with a story quickly. “Are we still on?”

“Absolutely.” Arthur smiles. “Please let her know I’m looking forward to meeting her tomorrow. And Gwaine.”

Merlin makes a face. “Wait until you meet these two wankers.”

“Hey!” Elena protests. “I heard that!”

“Then you know how little I trust you,” Merlin says, watching Arthur, still in his jeans, throwing on his suit jacket and stepping into his loafers.

“You don’t look the half a toff you usually do. I approve,” Merlin teases. 

Arthur snorts. “I have no time to change.” He walks up to Merlin to give him a soft, apologetic kiss, this time on the mouth. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Elena coos loudly on the other end of the phone.

Merlin pretends he didn’t hear that and nods. “I might take a walk, too.” He brings his mobile back to his ear as soon as Arthur leaves. “You utter tart…”

Elena giggles.

“Bankside?” he confirms.

“Yes,” she answers. “It’s by the Globe. Take the tube, it’ll be faster. No more than thirty minutes.”

“Good. Then I’ll have enough time to finish my dinner, although Arthur’s is going to get cold.”

“Did he go somewhere?”

“Yes. Urgent meeting with a client, he said.”

Elena hums. “You too are busy-busy bees.”

“We still make it work,” Merlin says proudly, not that he’s rubbing it in anyone’s face. “I’ll put his plate in the microwave and text him to heat it up if he comes back before me.”

“Microwave? Wow, you're getting the hang of domestic bliss, Wizard.”

“Oh shut it. Just because I’m rubbish at cooking doesn’t mean I can’t write you up.”

“Ohhhh, I’m shaking in my knickers.” Elena laughs. “At least you admit you’re rubbish at something. Good enough for me.”

“Send the information over.” Merlin takes on a serious tone again. “I’ll be at the pub by twenty-one hundred.”

“What about the sword?” Elena asks. “If our time traveler has something worthy of exchange, what are you going to offer him in return?”

Merlin chuckles. “You forget, Agent Pixie. I’m a powerful wizard. I’ll think of something.”

She huffs. “What a show-off. Good luck,” she wishes, with more heart. “Let’s hope you’re there first.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Merlin warns. "Over."

 

Elena totally did.

But first things first. Upon Merlin’s arrival at Blackfriars station, he magics on his _I'm-no-one-and-you-won't-remember-me_ face, like he always does during missions.

It takes him 10 minutes on foot from the tube, and at 20:55 he reaches the Swan’s entrance. As he opens the door, something unpleasant yet familiar tugs at his gut, prompting him to stop and look around, his eyes catching on a bloke in a distance, hailing a cab. It’s already getting dark, so it’s hard to tell from afar, and there are other people walking down the street, half-blocking the view, but if Merlin didn’t know better, he’d say the bloke looks kind of like Arthur -- tall, regal, blond, and in a dark suit jacket. But no, Arthur doesn’t own the small brown satchel the bloke is sporting on his shoulder -- he’s more of a briefcase kind of man. Besides, he didn’t have one when he left.

Merlin isn’t given enough time to give the bloke a proper once-over -- the man jumps into the cab too quickly and is already being carried away -- and Merlin’s meeting with the Craigslist guy starts in less than five minutes.

So he walks into the pub. The place is half-empty at this hour, normally busiest before and after the plays at The Globe, and Merlin looks around, eyes not lingering on anything or anyone in particular, but he’s noting and storing every detail until he spots the person he came here to meet. As described, the bloke is pale, has shaggy brown hair, and is dressed in a jumper that looks like chain mail (clearly handmade and not with great skill) under his long, unbuttoned grey coat. He’s sitting alone. His fingers are running crazy patterns all over the table while he’s tapping his foot and keeps muttering something under his breath, not paying attention to Merlin in front of him, until Merlin loudly clears his throat.

“Oh hullo,” he greets Merlin with a lost smile. “I’m Mordred. Are you Mr Smith?” He is, and not just thanks to Elena’s sense of humor.

“Yes, it’s me,” Merlin says, smiling, and accepts Mordred’s sweaty hand, fingers restless even in a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mordred.” His smile slides right off when he sees a long object sheathed in a brown cloth resting on Mordred’s lap, partially hidden under the table. He looks at it pointedly. “Or am I too late?”

“Uhhh… Maybe?”  Mordred’s eyes run a full circle around the pub before stopping on Merlin.  “You don’t have what I asked for anyway,” he suggests louder, in the tone of a person who's trying to sound braver than he feels.

“Oh no, I have it,” Merlin assures him. “I just didn’t want to get you in trouble with the coppers by handing you a cold-steel weapon in the middle of a public place. If I were you, I’d be very careful with that.” He makes a small gesture towards Mordred’s lap.

Mordred frowns. “Hmmm. You might be right. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Merlin smiles kindly. “Well, you’re a time traveler, so I suspect it’s not easy to keep up with ever-changing laws.”

Mordred starts grinning. “Exactly! You're so right. Thank you.”

“For what?” Merlin asks.

“For not thinking I’m some sort of a loon. I’m not.”

“Of course not,” Merlin agrees smoothly. “Sounds to me like you’ve been chosen for an important mission. I can relate to that.”

Mordred’s eyes light up with a gleam of excitement -- not an entirely healthy gleam, Merlin notes -- but he’ll have to deal with that issue later.

“I can see you’re a crusader as well,” Mordred says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

Merlin tilts his head, not answering with a yes, not protesting either. “Tell me, Mordred, the person before me, did he… or she?...”

“It was a he. A good-looking bloke, in his early thirties,” Mordred provides, winking.

Merlin is so not going there. Not anywhere close to the vicinity of flirting with Mordred, even if he has an excellent gaydar.

“Yes, thank you, good to know,” he says. “The person who gave you the sword, did he give you his name?"

Mordred snorts. "I'm not telling you that!"

"All right, fair enough," Merlin agrees. "Did he ask you for anything in exchange?”

“No, he didn’t,” Mordred says, and he looks delighted. “ _I_ offered something to him myself. Preemptively.” He winks again.

Merlin reins in his magic so it doesn’t whack the guy over his head.

“Right. Right,” he says lightly. “So, you have some sort of collection, I presume?”

“Oh yes,” Mordred says, beaming. “It’s quite unique. Many rare pieces.”

“That’s brilliant.” Merlin waves for the waiter. “A pint of dark,” he orders and holds up a tenner.

“Yes, cider for me,” Mordred says and pulls out his wallet. As he takes out the money, a coin falls out and bounces across the table. Out of reflex, Merlin slaps it down and when he lifts his hand, he recognises the coin instantly. He’s not even surprised.

He picks it up. “Looks like you’ve been traveling not just in time,” he comments to Mordred, studying it against the light, although what’s the point? He knows the imprint on both sides all too well.

“Oh, no.” Mordred shakes his head. “This isn’t mine.”

“Whose, then?”

“Um, the man who gave me the sword forgot it here. He was spinning it between his fingers the entire time we talked. Made me a bit dizzy, to be honest. He seemed a bit in a hurry.”

Looking Mordred in his bright-with-madness eyes, Merlin drops a not-so-subtle hint. “What a coincidence, I collect coins from all over the world.” At this point, it might as well be true.

Mordred shrugs, uncaring. “I've no need for it. You can keep it.”

“Thank you." Merlin puts the blasted coin in his pocket, loathing having it but reminding himself that this is his way of owning up to his failures. “Since I’m here,” he says, running his gaze over the pub crowd again, “out of respect for my time, may I ask if you could perhaps tell me what it is that you had offered in exchange for the sword?”

Mordred lowers one hand to his lap, considering Merlin with a squinted eye.

Merlin plasters the most sincere smile he can muster on his face. “I’m a private collector,” he lies easily. “Rare pieces from the long-forgotten past are what I live for.” Now, that’s not a lie.

“And my destiny is to bring the past back,” Mordred supplies enthusiastically. “Or rather, change the past for the better. After long, long research, I figured it out. If I go back all the way to fifteen hundred years ago and save King Arthur, the future of Albion will be changed. Arthur wouldn’t let magic die. We’d be living in a different world now.”

Merlin’s heart aches at these words. If only it were possible to go back in time. If only King Arthur was a real person and not just a legend, and if Mordred were right about King Arthur’s destiny, Merlin wouldn’t have to spend his entire life hiding the gift he was born with, chasing whatever crumbs of magic are still left in this world, and he wouldn’t have to lie to his own Arthur about who he really is.

“Yes, true. You should go and change that, Mordred.” Merlin can’t help his smile being sad.

Mordred beams at him, puffing his chest out a little. Leaning forward, he tells Merlin confidentially, his eyes boggled, “If you want, I can show you what I exchanged for the sword. I have a picture of it. I have pictures of most my artifacts. And some of them...” he looks around and mouths to Merlin, "...have _magic."_

Magic in the hands of a clearly unstable person -- what could be worse? He takes a deep breath and tries to sound normal when he says, “That’s fantastic. Yes, I’d love to see it.”

Mordred, encouraged, takes his mobile out and flips through the screen. “Here it is.”

Merlin’s heart skips a bit. _Of course_. It’s another piece of the Triskelion. The picture is blurry, but it's definitely the Triskelion, which explains the tug of magic he felt earlier outside of the pub. He’d been metres away from it and let it slip through his fingers.

He drops his head into his hands. “Christ, Mordred, I wish you’d waited. I would’ve offered you so much more for this.”

“Oh, don’t be upset, Mr Smith. That piece wasn’t even in good condition. I know the picture’s kind of blurry, but I assure you, no one would give you a penny for that artifact. Why do you think I gave it away? It was probably good for something at some point, but there's not a single record of it anymore. It’s truly useless,” Mordred says apologetically. “But you know what? Let me leave you my phone number and you can stop by and look at the good artifacts?”

“Did you offer the same to the other guy?” Merlin asks, grudgingly curious.

Mordred smiles. “No. He asked if I have other relics, and I told him that the one I offered was the only one I’d trade. Take it or leave it. He didn’t insist. I…” He trails off and stares at Merlin. “Oh dear… That artifact… Mr Smith?”

“Yes, Mordred, now you’re getting it,” Merlin says, voice resigned.

“It really was something special, wasn’t it?”

Merlin sighs. “Yes, it was.”

Mordred mutters something. He scratches his arm for the longest time, almost maniacally, his eyes unblinking, then sighs. “Well, I didn’t know him and I don’t know you, but for what it’s worth, I'm sorry he was here first.”

 _Not as sorry, as I am,_ Merlin thinks, and says out loud, “Thank you, Mordred. I’ll have my assistant contact you and schedule a time.”

“Sounds good, but hurry,” Mordred says. “Now that I have the means to fight by King Arthur's side, I'll be traveling to meet him very soon. I'm thinking next week!”

“Will do. Thank you,” Merlin says again.

It physically hurts him to walk away from the pub. Before, working on retrieving the artifact wasn’t anything personal. It was important for the magic community, yes, and to satisfy his professional pride. But he can’t ignore this ache deep in his bones or shut his magic down as it’s churning uncomfortably in his gut. He realises this has just become extremely personal. No one can mess with magic that’s under his protection and just walk away.

He’ll leave it to Morgana to negotiate with Uther Pendragon a safe return of the artifact, and should she not succeed -- if it comes to it -- he already knows that he will not hesitate to break into the Bureau’s vaults himself just to get another missing piece of the Triskelion out.

He calls Elena right outside.

"E, send backup here, right now. We must pick up Mordred. And send one to where he lives. Search the place. He has extremely rare artifacts and we must find them."

“Gwaine’s in your area; less than 5 minutes.” Elena reacts right away. “Sending team to Mordred’s.”

"I’ll stay here and guard him."

"Got it. M, what’s going on?”

"He had another Triskelion piece.”

Elena squeals. “Oh my god, I knew it! You have it?”

Merlin’s practically growling. “No, I bloody missed it again. I fucking hate, _hate_ this coin guy."

“Oh, so it’s a _guy_? I was right?”

“Yes, I found out for sure. I'll blast him to pieces when I catch him in the act. I can't wait.”

“Yes, get him, M! We’ve all had enough.” Even normally mild Elena sounds frustrated.

"Patch me to Gaius."

"Gaius speaking," he hears in less than 15 seconds. "What’s your update?"

"It's about Mordred. The person I was arranged to meet."

"Yes. Have you met him?"

"I have. But I was too late. The Bureau has another piece of the Triskelion, and we need to let Morgana know right away."

"I will. What of Mordred?" Gaius sounds more sympathetic than is warranted.

"He's not all the way there in the head, but not violent," Merlin says. “I have learned that he has more than one magic artifact. He wouldn't tell me how they came into his possession, but there are some truly remarkable pieces. He showed me some pictures. I believe he has the Blood Crystal, Gaius; we’ve looked for it _forever_. And he’s convinced that one other artifact can transport him in time. It’s not possible, but I’m really surprised how he’s still alive with such a rare collection.”

“Probably because no one believes he's credible.”

“Probably. Lucky for us,” Merlin agrees. “But now the Bureau is involved, and this situation cannot be more concerning. He asked for a sword, and they let him have it. They left him alone with a _weapon_.”

“What is your question, Merlin?” Gaius asks.

“Something is not right here.”

“Go on,” Gaius says, patient in a situation where Merlin has none.

“I think they did it on purpose. They left him here in an incriminating position -- why? We always step on each other's toes, and we all know it. Today, they were here first, made this strange exchange and left? Why didn’t they just pick him up?”

“Sadly, I think I know,” Gaius says.

“What is it?”

“Morgana has told me about the new Bureau tactic they’re trying. She believes Uther Pendragon is teaming up with MI6.”

“What? No way. But the agreement--”

“Don’t be naive, boy. Just because we have an agreement with our non-magic government to stay out of each other’s business, doesn’t mean they wouldn’t try to be in it anyway. Why do you think the Bureau even exists?”

“Bloody hell.” Merlin glances inside the pub through the door window. Mordred is still in the same spot, his hands restless on the table, and he’s rocking back and forth. “Do we know what they’re planning?” he asks grimly.

“To continue repressing and taking over magic and to bring the Agency to its knees. Nothing new...” Gaius trails off.

“Gaius,” Merlin growls. “ _How_?”

“Oh, nothing violent. By bending the rules,” he says, like it’s so obvious. “You remember that every time the Bureau has their hands on something to do with magic, they must inform us, and vice versa. They can’t destroy it without allowing us to go through appeal. They can’t keep it without letting us know. We are enforcing that rule. Guess what happens if instead of the Bureau, it’s MI6 at the scene of a crime involving magic? Or at the illegal exchange?”

“Those rules don’t apply to them.” Merlin feels like he wants to scream.

“Exactly. MI6 doesn’t have to tell anyone anything, because officially, magic doesn’t exist. And they can do whatever they want with an artifact once it’s in their custody. They can destroy it, they can turn it into a weapon. They can make a child's toy out of it.”

“I highly doubt they’re interested in that,” Merlin mutters. “So, are you saying MI6 is going after Mordred? They’ll arrest him while he's in illegal possession of a weapon, use the excuse to search and confiscate his collection, and then negotiate with Uther on artifacts without worrying about us going after them?”

“That’s what we’re afraid of," Gaius says. "Just because Uther hates magic for his own reasons, doesn't mean he's above using it when it suits his agenda. Now, imagine MI6 getting their hands on the Blood Crystal...”

“Bastards. So, why aren’t they already here?” Merlin asks, gritting his teeth.

“Because unlike us, they have little to no abilities to control elements, yet they must seek legal approval at every turn. It will take them time.”

“So, we still have an advantage.”

“And we’ll keep using it. Use it now, Merlin. Over.” Gaius ends the call. 

“M, almost there,” Elena’s voice is coming back, brisk, and just in the nick of time.

A car appears at the end of the street, brakes screeching as it turns, taking a corner, and hurls towards him. At the same time, he hears the roar of an engine coming from the Thames and sees a boat cutting through the water at high speed, in the direction of the Bankside pier.

“Which one is us?” Merlin asks.

“I'm in the car approaching you,” Gwaine’s voice cuts in, figuring out the question first. “You should see me now.”

“Yes, I see you,” Merlin says darkly and sends his magic out, towards the river.

The next day, the _Guardian_ reports strange news. According to multiple eyewitness accounts, a natural phenomenon occurred at 21:23 the previous evening by Shakespeare's Globe: an out-of-nowhere tide of water crashed into the pier and flipped one boat carrying several people. No victims were reported, and no names of survivors were provided, either.

 

~LDN~

 

Merlin wants to disappear -- or break something. This is all he can think about in Gwaine’s car on the way back home.

Gwaine tries to start a conversation. “Merlin--”

“Don’t talk to me,” Merlin says in a miserable voice, staring through the passenger window. It’s completely dark outside, and he can see his pale, glum reflection in the glass.

“Mordred’s cooperating. He’s turning over his collection to us,” Gwaine says anyway.

Merlin closes his eyes. “Not enough.”

“I know. We’ll take care of him, Merlin. El already spoke to Gaius about the possibility of evaluating him, and he agreed to help. And Mordred might have a few loose marbles, but he understands he’s been played.”

“And put in danger,” Merlin says grimly.

Gwaine sighs. “Yes, it happens.”

He considers telling Gwaine to fuck off, because goddammit, yes, their job is not all about playing hide-and-seek with the Bureau and there are risks involved, but how can he be so casual about this? If Morgana’s right, Uther isn’t just cheating -- he’s employing illegal artillery, and people are getting hurt. This is not about bending rules just to rub the Agency’s nose in another failure; this is Uther throwing down the gauntlet. This time, Merlin managed to avoid major damage. What happens next time? What if he doesn’t have a choice but to fight back?

Merlin’s too drained to start vocalising the dreadful scenarios forming in his head, so he lets Gwaine’s comment go.

“I need to see Morgana,” he decides.

“Okay,” Gwaine agrees and does a double-take. “What... _now_?”

“Yes, now.”

Gwaine makes a chortling sound and stops, glancing at him. “You’re serious…”

Merlin taps his comm. “E, contact Morgana for me. I’d like to debrief with her now. I’ll meet her wherever she wants.”

“Mate,” Gwaine begins again, “you’re pissed off and exhausted. Not a good combination to meet your boss.”

Merlin gives Gwaine such a nasty look, he shuts up.

“Do you also want Gaius?” Elena asks shortly.

“No. Just Morgana.”

“She’ll be in the office in 30 minutes.”

Merlin checks the clock. “Got it. Over.” And gestures for Gwaine to turn around. “Take me to the shop.”

“You both are insane,” Gwaine grumbles but obeys.

 

Even at past ten o’clock in the evening, Morgana is the epitome of a business person who’s always prepared for a challenge. When Merlin arrives, she's already in the office, standing pensively at the window, her tall, slender figure in a perfectly tailored suit. And although the desk blocks the view of her legs, Merlin has no doubt her shoes are of the needle-sharp toe and high-heeled variety; Morgana doesn’t wear any other kind. Her black hair is styled back into a tight, slick ponytail.

“Morgana,” he says, stopping at the door, not feeling like offering a polite “hello” or “thank you for finding the time”. He’s still too raw and disturbed by what happened at the Thames and with Mordred -- maybe Gwaine is right -- but Merlin doesn't give a fuck right now.

"Come in, Emrys," Morgana says, turning around.

Merlin can’t tell if it’s her makeup, accentuating the contrast of her pale skin and high cheekbones with her dark-red lips shining with lipstick, but she looks sharper, determined, and he has to suppress a shiver under the inquisitive glint of her eyes. Or it could be her magic, scanning him. She’s a witch, after all.

As Merlin approaches her desk, she takes his appearance in, frowning. “Take a seat,” she says. “Let me mix something for you.”

Merlin makes an indignant sound in his throat as he’s sitting down, and she adds, tone teasing, “A _tonic_ , Merlin. Not a Predilection serum.”

Merlin tries to snort, which comes out weaker than he intended. “Right, but I wouldn’t put it past you to roofie me with a truth serum.”

She raises her brow, handing him a tall glass with something clear she’s just poured from two different bottles. “Have secrets you don’t want anyone to know, agent?”

Merlin takes the glass, realising just how thirsty he is, sniffs it and shrugs. “I’m nothing but an open book as far as my job is concerned, boss.” With his eyes on her, he drinks half of the glass in one go and makes a satisfied noise. “How about you?”

Morgana lifts her chin, affronted. “You don’t get to ask me those kind of questions.”

“I think I do.” He places the glass on the desk. “When I’m sent on the missions with only half of the intel provided to me and my team. Or do you just like testing my improvising skills?”

She gives him a long, appraising look and her harsh expression changes, smoothing out on the edges. “All right,” she says and sits down, their eyes level now. “What happened? Full report.”

“Off the record,” Merlin requests immediately.

She takes a moment, considering the condition, and tilts her head in agreement. “Fine.”

Merlin picks up the glass again and finishes it; his head is clearer, anger dissipating, and he wonders what _was_ it exactly in that drink?  

“Feeling better?” Morgana asks, curving her mouth in a slight smirk.

“Somewhat,” he grumbles.

“Oh, good. Because for a moment there, I thought I’d lost my best agent to a bad case of dicktivitis.”

“Ha! Do I even want to know what that is?” Merlin asks, only mildly interested in what kind of an insult she’s got for him this time. Although, he likes this Morgana -- more down-to-earth and potty-mouthed -- a side of her she doesn’t show often or to just anyone. Merlin supposes it could be considered an honour to be on the receiving end of her snark.

Oh, she’s definitely put something in that drink, he then thinks, if he’s actually starting to believe he can _like_ Morgana.

“Oh, it’s a terrible disease,” she suggests mournfully. “Common symptoms are arrogance, negligence, convenient forgetfulness, rudeness, throwing teammates under the bus. Does it sound familiar to you?”

Merlin makes a face, gazing inside his empty glass. There couldn't be enough tonic for this conversation, even if he was on the biggest high of his life. “Are you saying I’m a dick? It’s not very professional of you, you know,” he argues.

“ _Au contraire_ , I’m helping you to grow professionally. And personally.”

Merlin looks up. “As a dick,” he feels the need to confirm.

Morgana stares at him without blinking.

He shakes his head. “I'm so glad Gaius isn’t here. My poor mentor would have a stroke. And I don’t know what’s more wrong -- the fact that you just called your employee a dick, or that we’re discussing growing me into a bigger one.”

“It seems to me that’s exactly why you came here tonight, Emrys,” Morgana says, “and you’re right, you _are_ my employee. I don’t owe you the answers you think you’re entitled to.”

“Tonight was almost a disaster, Morgana,” Merlin says, sinking a little more into his chair.

“I know, but it wasn’t. Why do you think I gave you this project?”

“You didn’t give it to me. I demanded it,” Merlin objects.

Morgana makes a face that’s a clear response to his statement, and the answer to who’s making final decisions here. Obviously, not Merlin.

He huffs. “You said it yourself -- I’m the best for the job.”

“Here we go again, comparing sizes,” she says, sighing. “Tell me, Emrys, why did you want to see me tonight? To vent?”

“No. I--” Merlin stutters.

“Or is it because there’s something you need, and only I can make it happen?” 

Merlin can’t escape the question nor Morgana’s sharp gaze. “It wasn’t venting,” he says stubbornly.

Morgana leans back in her chair and pointedly crosses her arms on her chest, the look on her face saying it all.

He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. I’m a dick.”

Morgana almost smiles. “Aren’t you glad it’s been pointed out to you? Otherwise, how would you fix such a nasty condition?”  
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Not with your wonderful healing spells, obviously. Half of them don’t even work.”

Morgana perks up. “Have you been practising?”

“Well, you told me it’s important, so.” Merlin looks away. He’s not going to tell her how many times he’s already had to spell Arthur’s love-bites away, working especially hard on having them fade slowly enough that it doesn’t raise Arthur’s suspicion, while his teammates and the rest of the Agency don’t make him a laughingstock for reliving his teenage years.

“Merlin.” Morgana commands his full attention with her voice. “Have you been practising?”

“Yes, yes, I have. Gaius has only been reminding me every other day about it.” He grimaces. “Bruises, cuts, burns, food poisoning, asthma. But you know, I’m not going to wound a person on purpose to make them my practise dummy.”

The light flashing in Morgana’s vividly-green eyes isn’t pleasant when she says, “Then you should’ve asked.”

Merlin looks at her, confused. “Ask what?”

“For a practise dummy.”

“No way, Morgana.” Merlin shudders just at the thought.

Morgana leans forward. “If there were a stab wound, what spell would you use?" She demands, sharper, "Wizard, answer me. Now.”

“I-- I--” Merlin stammers, frantically looking around, dropping his eyes to the papers on Morgana’s desk, as if he can find a hint there. His magic rises in his throat, disturbed, groggy.

“Agent.” Morgana’s eyes are glowing gold. “You’re killing your partner right now. Give me the _spell_.”

“ _Þurhhæle dolgbenn_ ,” Merlinblurts out, almost shouting. “ _Þurhhæle dolgbenn_ , Morgana!”

“Good,” she says, the gold in her eyes simmering down. “But it wouldn’t work. Not for a stab wound. You need to study more, and why didn’t you use your magic?”

Merlin swallows. He says, “This is what you won’t see in the report.”

“Right, off the record,” she recalls.

“This evening, at the Thames. I might have, possibly, overdone it.”

“Overdone how?”

“I wanted to create a diversion.”

“Yes, I know, and you did. That was an excellent job, Agent Emrys.”

“Yeah, thanks, but that’s not it.” He briefly closes his eyes, unable to stop the images flashing in his mind. “I stopped the boat with… I didn’t know exactly who was in it. MI6? The Bureau officers?”

Morgana doesn’t answer.

Merlin sighs. “And then I thought, what if I made a mistake? And what if those people are not who I think they are? What if they’re civilians? I…” He rubs his eyes, leaning down on his elbows.

“What?”

Merlin ducks his head, staring in front of him, unseeing, his voice turning hollow. “I didn’t want any of them killed, but I could have. Easily. My magic... “ He takes a deep breath. “One of them was hit in the head when the boat flipped over, and he almost drowned. And I just couldn’t stand and watch.” He turns to meet her eyes.

“Did anyone see you?” Morgana asks.

Merlin shakes his head. “No. I didn’t show at the pier, but I dragged the guy out of the river with magic, and then expelled the water out of his lungs using the spell. That spell drained me more than anything else.” Merlin shivers. “Gwaine was booking and sending off Mordred. The boat passengers were too busy flopping around in the water, and a few people at the pier were just too stunned by the sudden mini-tsunami to understand what was happening. I made sure their cameras didn’t work.”

Morgana rises to her feet and walks back to the window, staring through it for a minute. “What you did was reckless,” she finally says. “It was dangerous. And as your boss, I disapprove of your decision to expose yourself the way you did.”

Merlin makes a noise of protest, but she turns and stops him by raising her palm.

“But I’m proud of you.” Her features soften. “We are not monsters, Merlin, and you are not anyone’s instrument. Not the Agency’s, and certainly not the Bureau’s. Remember that. You’re angry with me for leaving you in the dark, but that’s not what it was all about. There are too many of us disillusioned, bitter, losing sight of what’s really important. What you did there was exactly what I’d have wanted you to do, what I wish _I_ could do but can’t anymore.”

She thinks for a long moment, leaving Merlin speechless.

“Merlin, you’re your own person, and if one day you decide that this job is no longer something you want to do, you are free to go. You can have a life outside of this race and madness -- I promise not to stop you.”

Merlin frowns, suspicious and disconcerted by her ominous words. “What’s this all about, Morgana? What are you saying?”

Morgana sighs, dropping her hand. “What I’m saying is, your magic is not something to be governed by politics or to serve someone’s agenda.”

“Whose is?”

“No one’s, we just make that choice, and I want you to know that you have one, too. Whatever you think your purpose is, follow it.”

“My purpose is here,” Merlin says firmly. “I can’t leave. I won’t. So you can quit with your ‘Liberate Emrys’ speeches. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not telling you to,” Morgana says, a smile tugging on her lips as she walks back to her desk.

“Is this about your visions?” he asks. “Am I dead in like two years or something?” He’s only half-joking, because with Morgana, he never knows. No one does. Morgana, on the other hand…

“No,” she says, her eyes turning so sad, Merlin feels his magic responding with a dull ache. “Definitely not you. But it’s possible that at some point soon, you’ll have to make a choice that will be against everything you believe in, and I want you to remember that beliefs change. Don’t just trust your eyes and ears, trust your heart and your magic more.”

Merlin takes Morgana’s words in, waits a little longer to see if she’ll add anything else.

“This is all you’re going to say, isn’t it?” he asks. “We aren’t going to talk about Uther, or MI6, or Mordred? Or even the Triskelion? Are you going to get it back from the Bureau?”

Morgana nods. “I will do everything I can, but leave Uther and his dealings to me. I trust you with Mordred’s case, since this incident is a part of your project. That’s in your hands, and I promise not to interfere.”

“Yes, all right,” Merlin says after a pause, and then, more determined, “Get the piece back, Morgana, or I’ll have to do something about it myself. I’m not scared of Uther.”

Morgana smiles. “ _Dicktivitis_ , Emrys. Go practise those spells.” Her expression changes again, turning stern. “I am serious. _Practise_. Go.”

 

 

~LDN~

 

Of course, Gwaine’s been waiting for him outside and whistles from the open window of the car as soon as Merlin exits the Agency building. “Get in, daisy. I’ll take you home.”

Merlin’s eternally grateful, although he wouldn’t say it out loud.

As they stop at Merlin’s place, Gwaine asks, “We’ll see you and Arthur tomorrow, yeah? Seven o’clock?”

“What?” With everything that’s happened to Merlin tonight, it feels like Gwaine’s asking about something from a different dimension, talking about some alternate world. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Seven.” He smiles. “Bring that tequila.”

Gwaine bumps Merlin’s shoulder with his fist. “Now we’re talking, mate!”

Merlin salutes him with two fingers.

  

As bleak as Merlin’s mood is when he enters his flat, Arthur’s appears to be buoyantly happy -- almost too happy -- as he walks up to greet Merlin in the hallway. There’s a bounce to his step that’s uncharacteristic for this late hour, which would probably irritate Merlin if he wasn’t this determinedly down.

“That was a long walk,” Arthur comments without a hint of complaint in his tone; he’s actually grinning. "I hope it was as satisfying as my client meeting."

Any other day, Merlin would take this moment to recognise for the upteenth time how easy it is to be with Arthur, especially when he’s in this great of a mood.

“Ended up in a pub,” Merlin says quietly, kicking off his trainers, and rubs a hand over his tired eyes. He hates that he has to make up yet another excuse that isn’t exactly a lie, but is so far from the truth.

Arthur leans in and kisses him. “Mmm, you don’t smell like you’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Just didn’t want to be alone,” Merlin says, surprised at his own explanation and at the strange satisfaction he feels as Arthur’s face falls. It’s like he wanted to upset Arthur, and is glad it worked. He’s basically being a dick and can’t help it. Misery loves company, and all that.

“Shit,” Arthur swears softly. “Merlin, I...” He places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, squeezes it, moving closer.

“No, it’s not that. It’s…” Merlin puts his own hand over Arthur’s and sighs. “I don’t know.”

But he does.

It’s the restlessness and dissatisfaction sitting heavy on his chest, and the steadily growing unhappiness with himself. It seems that everything he does lately -- as a sorcerer, as a friend, as a man -- he fails at. Even his own magic has been betraying him, because apparently it has recently decided it knows best.

And as if to drive the point home, his magic, lying low since the incident at the Thames, makes itself known in the least appropriate moment -- as soon as Arthur offers him another kiss, with more meaning. It unfurls wide in his chest and rolls down with a heavy press to his gut and travels further, flaring up low in his belly with a needy, sharp tug, practically _telling_ Merlin what it is he _must do_ to feel better. As if in confirmation, he feels another strong tug, his whole body tensing and growing hot at the unexpected spike of arousal shooting through him.

“Fuck,” Merlin says, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” and starts grappling at Arthur.

“What?” Arthur pulls back, eyes roving all over Merlin and freezing on his scowling face. “Merlin, what’s wrong?”

Hissing a breath through his teeth, he practically catches his magic by its tail from rushing over and _binding_ Arthur’s hands when he tries to put his arms around Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin needs something much more satisfying tonight than soothing embraces, but if anything is going to dictate the rules tonight, it won’t be his cantankerous magic.

“Nothing's wrong,” he snaps and drops his voice lower, a challenge, “Strip off your clothes. Now.”  

Arthur halts, his forehead wrinkling in confusion, until he realises what Merlin’s asking. “D’you mean--” The question dies in Arthur’s mouth at Merlin’s sharp, “Yes, right here.”

The expression on Arthur’s face morphs from confused to intrigued as he stands up straighter. “All right,” he says and reaches for the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t lower his eyes from Merlin the entire time he’s slowly pulling it off his shoulders and over his head, ruffling his hair.

Merlin waits, already knowing exactly what he’s going to ask for.

“Leave the watch on,” he instructs when Arthur goes to undo the clasp on his wrist. “And nothing else.”

Merlin shifts his feet to stand wider, keeping his head lowered, gaze firm on his partner, while he lets more seconds tick by, his heart and magic thrumming in anticipation of the moment when Arthur realises that Merlin is not planning to follow suit. Merlin will stay dressed.

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers, taking Merlin’s stance in. “Fuck, Merlin,” he repeats louder, a not-well-hidden thrill cracking his voice. He licks his lips, swaying, and Merlin catches that brilliant moment when Arthur’s pupils bloom with a rush of lust. He knows then that this is going to be the sex neither of them will be able to forget.

Arthur doesn’t rush it, but his clenched jaw and slightly trembling hands show just how much this excites him and how much effort it takes for him not to act on it while he’s stripping the rest of his clothes.

Minutes later or in a blink of an eye, Merlin can’t tell anymore, finally, Arthur stands in front of him, at the full of his height and stunning -- all golden skin, carved muscles, and dark, pebbled nipples, his large, already half-mast cock swaying heavily between thick thighs, his eyes burning. His hand moves unsteadily under Merlin’s hot gaze when he tries to smooth down the disarray of his hair. 

Merlin’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him -- of the man always so secure in his masculinity, yet nervous to be standing this bare in the face of objectification. Arthur’s trust in him only turns Merlin on more. His throat clicks empty a few times before he’s able to speak again.

“Come here, Arthur,” he calls, voice soft, husky. Bringing his hand to the bulge in his denims, he taps the zipper with two fingers and orders, “I want you to take it out.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, Arthur licks his lips and reaches out to Merlin’s belt.

“No,” Merlin says, pointedly lowering his chin. “Not like that.”

Time speeds up.

Face contorting with impatience -- his interior finally cracking -- Arthur groans and sinks to his knees; Merlin makes a satisfied sound, and Arthur drops the last of his pretences and starts quickly undoing and ripping his denims open. He pulls Merlin’s hard, leaking cock out of his pants, offering a fervent murmur of appreciation, and Merlin’s arousal skyrockets at the touch of Arthur’s fingers, teasing and reverent at the same time. The alluring gleam of the Patek watch on his tanned wrist has Merlin practically drooling.

“Take me in your mouth,” he orders in a hoarse whisper. “I want to fuck it.” 

Arthur exhales loudly, wrapping his fingers around Merlin’s cock more firmly and leans in to brush the tip back and forth against his wet lips.

“No.” Merlin puts a guiding hand on Arthur’s soft hair and presses his head forward. “Take it all in.”

“Fuck, Merlin,” Arthur whispers, his eyes blazing-blue when he glances up at him and does as he’s told. He takes Merlin in, deep, and deeper, his mouth a tight, incredible heat. Merlin tries to stay still, croaking more instructions, “Use your tongue. Yes, like that. Now your teeth, at the base. Oh fuck, Arthur, that’s it...”

Arthur starts moaning around his cock, throat constricting, and Merlin snaps his hips forward, unable to help himself. Arthur gags but doesn’t move away, just taking a moment to breathe through his nose.

“Shit, shit, Arth--” Merlin starts apologising, but Arthur brings his free hand over Merlin’s buried in his hair and presses on it, insistent, showing him that he’s okay, that he wants it, and goes back to gripping and sucking and swallowing around him.

Merlin groans loudly, a litany of curses and appraisal falling off his lips. “Fuck, yes. More of that.” His legs start to shake. “I’m going to come soon,” he warns.

Arthur does something crazy with his lips and tongue at Merlin’s suggestion, and he drops his hand with unmistakable purpose to give some attention to his own taut erection, not yet touched.

The sight of his shiny-red cockhead, appearing and disappearing in the fist stripping over it, undoes something in Merlin.

“Oh god. Wait, Arthur. Wait!” he moans, tugging at his hair. “I don’t want you to come.” He cries out at the sudden increase of suction of his lover’s mouth and a flick-twist of his tongue at the ridge of the head at the same time.

Merlin knows what Arthur’s doing -- getting what he wants while manipulating Merlin out of his will by edging him closer to orgasm. Arthur’s body goes taut, his breathing turning harsh and uneven through his nose -- the signs Merlin already knows so well. Arthur scrunching his eyes shut, getting close, but that’s not where Merlin wants him. Not yet.

“Deeper, Arthur,” he orders, moving his hips again. “You can take it. Use both your hands.”

Arthur snaps his watery eyes at Merlin, grumbling a protesting, “hnggg”, his teeth scraping over Merlin’s rigidly-sensitive cock, but it’s still good; it gives him such a crushing pleasure, Merlin’s eyes roll into his head.

“Both hands, Arthur,” he repeats feverishly and tightens his hand in Arthur’s hair, demanding for him to heed. “Make me come… already close.”

Arthur makes a small, displeased sound but stops stroking himself and bring his left hand up to join his right.

“That’s good.” Merlin brushes his fingers over the shell of Arthur’s ear, and goes back to verbalising his need, “Now suck just the head… again... oh shit, that’s it… feels so fucking good… Arthur, _Arthur_...”

Arthur shifts his hands to Merlin’s hips and while holding him there, dips his head to take him all the way in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. He buries his nose into the thatch of Merlin’s dark hair and swallows around him, once, twice, humming. And that’s it. Merlin topples over the edge.

His brain short-circuits and he jerks forward, choking on a wave of orgasm crushing through him, pleasure so intense he goes blind with it, blood roaring in his ears. Blood and magic. Somewhere from afar, he registers that Arthur’s making choking noises too while he grips Merlin, swallowing his seed as Merlin comes deep in his throat.  

Merlin isn’t sure how long it takes for him to come back to himself. Arthur’s still on his knees before him, hands stroking the back of Merlin’s thighs, forehead pressed to his hip. Merlin half-remembers to will his magic down so it doesn’t show itself when he opens his eyes. When Arthur looks up, he’s smiling, although there’s a crease formed between his brows. 

“Merlin,” he says, voice raw, used. “Are you okay?”

Merlin brings his hand to stroke Arthur’s jaw. “I will be. Come here.” He pulls Arthur up and kisses him, at first chaste, then deeper, tasting himself in Arthur’s mouth. He’s glancing down at Arthur’s still-sizeable erection. “Doing all right?”

Arthur grimaces. “Fine. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of myself.”

“No, you won’t.” Merlin keeps his eyes on Arthur’s face as he says it. “I don’t want you to take care of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Merlin brings his hand to Arthur’s cock to strip him with a few firm, quick strokes, making him hiss, jerk with need, and moan.

“Only I will touch you tonight,” he says, and changes the pace to longer, slower strokes, using a lighter grip. ”I will tease and fuck you, Arthur, and tease you some more. I’ll let you come very close, to the very edge, over and over, but you will not be coming tonight.” He stops stroking Arthur altogether and drops his hand, met with a protesting groan.

When it dawns on Arthur that Merlin is being serious, he looks at him with astonishment. “Why?”

Merlin tells him the truth. “This is what I need right now. Nothing else will work.”

Arthur chews on his lip, studying his face for so long, Merlin thinks this is it, Arthur will tell him to fuck off and he’ll leave. Never mind he’s naked and his cock is still hard, probably painfully so. 

“Okay,” Arthur says, after an excruciatingly long moment. A slow smile appears on his face.

“Okay what?” Merlin asks.

Arthur shifts from foot to foot, shivering a little. “I can’t say it’s how I saw this evening going, but it looks like you have bigger needs than me tonight.” He glances down at himself, then at Merlin, and adds, sly, “Well, maybe not _bigger_ …”

Merlin pulls him in for a searing kiss, and Arthur opens into it right away, leaning into him with his whole body.

“It’s okay for it to be just about you sometimes, Merlin. I understand,” he murmurs against Merlin’s mouth, then sucks and bites on his lower lip, like he always does before saying something atrociously inappropriate. “Just promise not to leave me with permanent blue balls.”

Merlin takes this opportunity to reach down to give him a sharp tug and fondle. “That would go against my future plans with you,” he assures him and slightly squeezes his fingers again, pleased with earning another frustrated groan.

He wonders how it is that he has this brilliant, understanding partner who actually gets what he needs, and yet it doesn’t make him feel as happy as it should, the heaviness in his chest only growing.

“I’m glad we agree.” Arthur nips at Merlin's jaw while holding his hand where it is. “Do it again, you bloody tease.”

Merlin pulls Arthur into their bedroom, thinking despairingly that unfortunately Arthur’s mistaken -- none of it is okay, because Merlin is a liar and they have no future.

In the bedroom, he strips the rest of his clothes off under Arthur’s impatient gaze. Arthur’s  already in bed, lying above the covers without a stitch of clothing on him except for the bloody watch -- this time shameless with need and not hiding it.

“Merlin, you said you’d touch me,” he calls in a strained voice. “Come on, get on with it already.” With his hands fisting into the covers at his sides, Arthur begins to rhythmically jut his hips up and down, his hard cock bobbing with each move. He groans, his eyes a dark gleam through hooded lids, mouth parted. “I’ll hate you and I’ll love you for it. Please, Merlin, touch me. I _want_ it.”

For a moment, it feels like Merlin’s chest is going to crack open. _Please don’t ever hate me_ , he wants to say. _I want only the other part._

He doesn’t say it.

And instead, he drops to his knees on the bed next to Arthur and proceeds to follow through with his plan: he takes everything Arthur can give him. Both the hate and the love.

He keeps his word. He teases Arthur for what seems like forever, suckling and sucking, licking and kissing every inch of his body, his every dimple and scar that he’s yet to learn about, discovering especially sensitive spots that drive Arthur to destruction, making him writhe under Merlin’s hands and mouth, moan and beg that, _Oh god, Merlin, it’s too much_ … and, _Please never stop doing this_ , while he’s taking his time exploring them, committing this Arthur to his memory.

At the end, when Arthur’s magnificently fit, strong body, built to impress and endure, gives out, going completely pliant under Merlin’s hands, he eats Arthur out, fucks him with fingers and his tongue until Arthur is sobbing, unable to take any more. Merlin stops the torture and just moves to lie on top of him, stroking his damp cheeks and hair, hushing Arthur with sweet words of praise, adoration and thanks. Arthur falls asleep in Merlin’s arms, lines of exhaustion creasing his forehead and around his mouth, looking bruised and swollen from being fucked and kissed so much. He clutches Merlin, occasionally twitching and moaning in his sleep.

Merlin is exhausted himself, both he and his magic drained by the earlier physical and mental strain he subjected himself to at the Thames, and later, trampled by the enormity of guilt and love. The evening reaches its pinnacle when he turns to face Arthur, who’s warm and naked under the covers, pouting in his sleep, and admits to himself that this isn’t just a crush, born from loneliness.

This is the night when Merlin finally accepts the truth that he's irrevocably and devotedly in lovewithArthur.

Merlin wakes him up when the sun’s already pinking the sky, pressing his face to Arthur’s groin, which is still damp with sweat and pre-come, erection only half-flagged even now. Merlin uses his tongue to flick and lave it back to fullness against Arthur’s taut belly, as his lover starts groaning and undulating his hips, disoriented at first.

“I want you to come in my mouth,” Merlin whispers. Placing nipping kisses first at Arthur’s already drawn-up balls, he drags the tip of his tongue up his thick, twitching length, and stops, reaching the cockhead, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss at the tip. “Wake up, Arthur.”

Arthur lifts his head, opening his hazy eyes, and freezes for a moment, taking the view before him in, and then, with an inpatient sound, he slides his fingers into Merlin’s hair to hold him in place, snapping his hips up to meet Merlin’s waiting mouth, and says, voice surprisingly clear, “As you can see, I’m very much up.”

Arthur comes with a cry not long after, his face scrunched up in an expression somewhere between pain and pleasure, glorious in its intensity and vulnerability, and Merlin doesn’t think he’ll ever get over this beautiful, generous man. He doesn’t want to.

When he crawls up to place, his head on Arthur’s still heaving, sweaty chest, Arthur sighs with contentment and kisses the top of his head, saying, voice groggy again, “I forgot to ask you. Are you home next weekend?”

Merlin tries to say something intelligible, like “Maybe. Dunno. Why?” and fails. Arthur understands him anyway. 

“Hope you are. My sister Morgana invited us to dinner next Sunday.”

             

[TO BE CONTINUED]


End file.
